LIBRARY DF CONGRESS. 



OF CONGRES 



Chap. Copyright No. 

Shelf_..__._rp7S' 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



HOUSEHOLD GEMS 



A METRICAL WORK 



BY 



CHARLES NELSON TEETER. 



This Volume Contains Over One Hundred of 
His Best Poems. 



17 189/ ; 



Cincinnati : 

THE LIGHT OF TRUTH PUBLISHING CO 
1896. 






^^^t 



COPYBIGHTED, 1896, 

By CHARLES NELSON TEETER. 



This book can be had at The Light of Truth Publishing Co 
Cincinnati, O., or from the author at Ballard. Mo. 

Prick, One Dollar per Copy. 



BE Die A TIOX. 

Inasmuch as this work contains many 
2)ieces suitable for declamation^ it is 
therefore dedicated to the 

AMERICAN STUDENT . 



INTRODUCTION. 

In writing a successful book, two points are 
essential : i. The writer should have something to 
tell. 3. He must know how to tell it, whether he 
tells it in prose or in poetry. In writing this little 
volume we thought we had something to say on the 
different subjects we have treated, and we have said 
it in our peculiar way, but whether we have been 
equal to the task of telling it as it should be told, or 
not, is left for the reader to decide. 

In writing a metrical work, the writer is presumed 
to know something about his business, and as that has 
been ours, perhaps it may not be amiss to give, in as 
few words as possible, some of our notions and ideas 
about poetry. Poetry may be classed or graded as 
good, bad, and indifferent. It is of the first class that 
we wish more particularly to speak ; of this class 
there is being more written at the present time than 
ever before in the world's history, other men's opinions 
to the contrary, notwithstanding ; for this is certainly 
an age of poetry as well as an age of invention. It is 
not every day, however, that we find a real good 



6 Introduction. 

poem, even at this stage of the world's progress ; but 
when we do find one, a single perusal of it does not 
satisfy us, and we have to read it over and over again, 
in order, as it were, to drink in its full inspiration. 

There are times when one can write better than he 
can at others, and such times are generally taken 
advantage of by all good writers, and this is what 
Longfellow meant by saying : "When the spirit says 
write, write." Good writers do not always write well, 
however, for the very reason that they sometimes 
undertake to write when the spirit does not move, or 
in other words, when they are not in a proper mood 
or condition to write. Some of Longfellow's poems 
are sublime, and some are indifferent, although he is 
generally considered one of the best poets this country 
has ever produced. When he wrote : 

" Lives of great men all remind us. 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And departing leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time," 

he wrote most excellent poetry, this, no one can deny; 
and when Hagan wrote : 

"All in action, all in motion, 
In this mighty world of ours, 

Like the current of the ocean 

Man is urged by unseen powers,'* 



Introduction. 7 

he wrote a great truth, and at the same time, one of 
the finest poetical effusions ever written in the Enghsh 
language. 

Now the question naturally arises, what consti- 
tutes good poetry? The question having arisen, we 
will try to answer it. No poetry is good unless it is 
sensible, so that good sense constitutes the chief 
ingredient ; being sensible, the sense must stand out 
in bold relief, clear and plain — so plain indeed that a 
child ten years of age could not fail to understand 
were he to read. This is, in my opinion, the most 
important thing to be taken into consideration. 
Next to the sense is the meter, without which it does 
not deserve the name of poetry. There must also be 
a harmony of language that is pleasant to the ear, and 
if the verse be not blank, the rhyme must be complete. 
When we find a poem consisting of all these elements 
we cannot but pronounce it good, and if it sparkles 
with a little wit, so much the better. Good poetry is 
in one respect like good money, it has a genuine ring 
about it, that the spurious stuff has not. Bad poetry 
does not jingle. Nearl} all good readers of to-day are 
good critics, and it is an easy matter for them to detect 
the difference between good poetry and bad. Sim- 
plicity of style and clearness of expression are what 
the great mass of readers require at the hands of the 
author. In writing we have endeavored, under all 



S , Tntroducfion. 

circumstances, to keep the sense in full view and not 
lose sight of it even for a moment. In order to do 
this, and also preserve the meter, as well as the rhyme, 
and at the same time to tell just what we wanted to 
say, and in language to suit the taste, we have always 
found it to be a difficult task. The st3de we have 
adopted is our own ; the sentiments we have given 
expression to, are also our own, except in a few 
instances, perhaps where the views of others exactly 
■coincide with our own. 

To be sure, we have often chosen themes for our 
pen, that have been written upon before by competent 
writers, but we have expressed our own ideas, and 
not theirs, as it is a fact that people differ very fre- 
quently in their views upon the same subject. 

Our aim throughout has been to write in a clear 
and succinct manner, never destroying the sense for 
the sake of ryhme, and always writing the truth as we 
understood it, from the standpoint we occupied. 
Now if we have written anything that will add to the 
iliterature of our day we shall be glad, or if we have 
■done nothing more, than to amuse even a few of the 
dwellers of earth, we shall feel that our time has not 
'been wholly lost. Everybody has his favorite theme 
-of meditation or thought — a theme that he gives more 
attention and time to than anything else. One man 
ihas politics, another theology, another science, and so 



Introduction. 9 

on through the whole catalogue ; but poetry has been 
ours, and our time, or much of it at least, from our 
boyhood days has been devoted to it, and if there is 
one thing we love better than anything else, it is 
poetry, true and genuine. If there is one hour more 
agreeably spent than another, it is the one in which 
we are engaged in bringing out, in tangible form, the 
poetry of our nature. 

We have selected for publication in this little 
volume over one hundred of our best poems, treating 
on many different subjects. They have been written 
through a considerable lapse of time, say from 1855 ^^ 
1895, ^"^ under very different circumstances, as well 
:as in many different places. Some were written in 
th^ East, and some in the far West, but all within the 
bounds of the United States. Some were written by 
the lamp's dim light and some under the full glare o^ 
the noonday sun. Some have been written in one 
kind of verse, and some in another, until almost every 
kind of meter has been employed. 

Only a few of the poems have ever been published 
in the newspapers of the country, so that nearly every 
thing contained in the book will be new to the reader. 
Interspersed among the poems are quite a number of 
autographs that are entirely original. Some of them 
Oiave been written by the .author in different albums 
throughout the country, and without doubt have been 



lo Introduction. 

copied into other albums until they are pretty weO 
scattered, but wherever found we claim the author- 
ship. A few epitaphs and epigrams will be found in 
this work which are also original. 

In placing this volume before the public, we do so- 
with great reluctance, as we have no means of know- 
ing how it will be received. To us it is an experiment, 
which may, or may not, be worth trying — we don't 
know. We are not presumptuous enough, however, 
to think that this work will please everybody, for that 
would be out of the question, but feel confident some 
will like it ; should this be the case we shall be 
satisfied. By the Author. 



contents; 

PAGE. 

A Blessing in Disguise 1 1 1 

A Dream 218 

A Genius 34 

A Fine Old Lady 47 

Agriculture 7 ^ 

A Kiss 187 

Ambition 156- 

An Acrostic 46 

An Address to America 103. 

An Address to Bobolink 153 

An Address to a Forest Tree 193. 

An Odd Man 57 

A Poetical Advertisement 158 

A Riddle 138 

A Smart Girl 154 

A True Hero 113 

Autographs,. . . .30, 80, 82, 84, 119, 121, 169, 176, t86 
212, 220, 223, 227, 251, 261, 263, 270, 272 

Autumn 23 

A Warning m 

Baby 131 

"Beautiful Snow." 221 

Beauty 268 

Centennial 233 



12 Contents. 

PAGE. 

Conscience, What Is It ? 152 

Conundrum 192 

Death 99» 225 

Devoted 241 

Dissatisfied 170 

Epigrams 41, 44, 163 

Epitaphs 32, 44 

Every Dog Will Have His Day 51 

Fame 150 

Fate 116 

Fido's Soliloquy 42 

Garfield 209 

Grant 182 

Happiness a Gem 191 

Happy Dying 195 

Hard to Do 105 

Home 257 

How to Discriminate Between Right and Wrong 33 

Idaho 161 

Ignorance 263 

Inspiration 80 

Jim Brown's Courtship 38 

Jones's Farm 211 

Kate and Joe 201 

Kate's Inquiry • 127 

Life 97 

Life's Battle 124 



Contents. 13. 

PAGE. 

Lines to Maud 61 

Love 90 

Man's Destiny, What Is It ? 13a 

Maud's Answer 65 

McGinty's Chanticleer 246 

More Truth Than Poetry 75 

My Country -* • • 252 

My Girl 122 

My Life 1 59 

My Little Maid -. 89 

My Wife 229 

My Wife's Picture 205 

Nature's Mysteries 135 

Old Abe Lincoln 12a 

On an Old Maid 228 

On Dying 262 

On Immortality 49 

Only Just the Other Night 137 

Perseverance 151 

Progress 250 

Reason 196 

Religion 231 

Rest, Soldier, Rest 172 

Satisfaction 256 

Sincerity 215 

Spring 17 

Steadfast 254 



14 Contents. 

PAGE. 

Stock Feeding 115 

Summer 18 

The Bachelor's Lament 199 

The Beggar's Petition 266 

The Better Land 83 

The Blacksmith 264 

The Buffalo 106 

The Centenarian's Reverie 224 

The Child's Wish 92 

The Conductor 31 

The Drunkard's Wail 1S3 

The Electric Light 149 

The Female Crusoe 139 

The Forward Youth 164 

The Friends of Youth 36 

The Grecian Bend 226 

The Grasshopper Raid 174 

The Happy Man 242 

The Hell Doctrine Censured 53 

The Hell Doctrine Vindicated 55 

The Hermit of Colorado 206 

The Human Form 45 

Then and Now 177 

The Old Maid's Confession 117 

The Old Oak Tree 109 

The Outcast's Lament 248 

The Present A^e 168 



Contents. 



15 



PAGE. 

The Progress of the Morning 40 

The Prospector's Own Song 194 

The Redman 107 

The Rich and Poor Contrasted 139 

The Rose 371 

The Rubber Comb 73 

The Soul's Farewell to the Body 185 

The Stolen Heart 133 

The Teacher's Soliloquy 344 

The Tramp 85 

The Village Cobbler 313 

The Universe 260 

The Wedding 81 

'Tis Said 258 

To a Departed Friend 69 

To My Wife 259 

To the Ocean 145 

To the Oppressed of Other Lands loi 

Truth 184 

What I'd Rather Be 216 

What I'd Tell Her 146 

What Is Home Without a Mother 135 

What's In a Name 95 

Winter 27 

Woman's Love 155 

Your Valentine 181 

Youthful Pleasures • •• 2s3 



THE SEASONS. 

SPRING. 

Spring has come in all her glory, 
Since old winter took his leave, 

Nature now is clothed in beauty, 
Fragrant is the air we breathe. 

Grass is springing in the meadow, 
Leaves they are unfolding too. 

Flowers on every side are blooming 
Aided by the rain and dew. 

Birds are in the treetops warbling 
Music that we love to hear — 

Music that no other songsters 
Can our hearts so truly cheer. 

In the orchard bees are humming 
As they fly from flower to flower. 

Shortly they are interrupted 
By the falling of a shower. 



17 



The Seasons. 

But the clouds will soon pass over 
And the sun will shine once more, 

Just as grand and gloriously 
As it ever shone before. 

Such is spring, oh, lovely season! — 
Most delightful of the year. 

Full of charms to please the vision, 
Full of music to the ear. 



SUMMER. 



'Tis evident that once again 
Bright summer has resumed her reign, 
Has superceded spring once more, 
As she has done ofttimes before. 
On gazing round it will be seen 
That earth is robed in brightest green- 
A garb she dons when summer reigns, 
Without a whit of extra pains, 
And one in which she doth appear, 
To judge from all that we can hear, 
Far more becoming than the one 
She dons when summer-reign is done. 
The sun beats down immensely hot 
On each and every sunny spot, 
Which almost forces us to own 
That we are in the torrid zone^ 



The Seasons. ly 

Although we swelter with the heat 
While sleeping neath a single sheet 
With every window open' wide, 
As well as all the doors beside, 
We must adnit that weather warm 
Is what we need to make the corn. 
As all the roads are dusty quite 
The traveler in his saddest plight 
May now be seen to jog along, 
Noways inclined to sing a song, 
Or talk or whistle, laugh or joke. 
Nor round about him wrap a cloak, 
For yonder sun in passing o'er 
Will start the sweat from every pore, 
And make him draw his handkerchief 
To wipe his brow and get relief ; 
And thus 'tis seen with vision clear 
That summer is the time of year, 
The traveler on the highway must 
Contend with heat as well as dust. 
The little brook that babbled by 
Not long ago, alas, is dry ! 
'Twas by degrees, and slowly too. 
Its murmur faint and fainter grew 
As day by day the heat increased 
Until it ultimately ceased. 
And now adown its sandy bed 
Unhesitatingly we tread. 



20 The Seasons, 

The earth is groaning now beneath 
A burden she will soon bequeath 
Unto the tillers of the soil 
As a reward for honest toil. 
The harvest time is near at hand 
When all the grain throughout the land 
Must by the sickle kiss the ground, 
And then be gathered up and bound^^ 
By men of muscle, men of nerve, 
Who should be willing now to serve 
A neighbor in the time of need, 
And be to him his friend indeed. 
The grain, we venture, is not all 
That by the sickle keen must fall, 
For acres upon acres now 
Of grass is ready for the mow, 
When cut, and dried, and stowed away, 
'Twill then assume the name of hay 
And be unto the cattle fed, 
When all the grass around is dead. 
The deep green foliage that now 
Luxuriant hangs from every bough 
Excludes the light of heaven that would 
The forest enter if it could, 
And so, you see 'tis filled with gloom 
As dark and dismal as the tomb. 

*ThiB poem was written be ore the Binder was invented. 



The Seasons, 2t 

The feathered songster of the air, 

They even seem to be aware 

That 'tis the order of the day, 

And so they hide themselves away, 

For scarcely one can now be seen 

The branches huge to dart between. 

They evidently were not made 

To live contented in the shade. 

Now, when the lengthened summer day, 

Alas ! has smiled and passed away 

When evening shades are gathering round 

And all is silent — not a sound 

Is heard, except the katydid 

That in some treetop near is hid — 

And when a cool refreshing breeze 

Has just sprung up o'er land and seas. 

As if its mission was to seek 

Some lady fair to fan her cheek. 

This is the time, the glorious time, 

For all that still are in their prime. 

To meet and then to serenade 

With music sweet some lovely maid. 

In summertime the butterfly 

Will ofttimes gaily pass you by, 

'Tis sport to see him dart about, 

His course is zigzag out and out. 

Just like a bird he's on the wing, 

But can not be induced to sing. 



i2 The Seasons, 

There also is another fly 
We often meet with in July, 
A curious*looking object that 
Rejoices in the name of bat, 
He can not stand the sun's bright ray, 
So flies by night instead of day ; 
The firefly, too, an insect queer, 
In weather warm will oft appear, 
J£e has what both the others lack. 
And that's a lantern on his back. 
It lights him on his darksome way 
And makes his course as plain as day. 
The whip-poor-will, a curious bird, 
At close of day is sometimes heard. 
His voice is clear and somewhat shrill 
When he pronounces "Whip-poor-will,*' 
A modest but peculiar word. 
That ne'er was spoke by other bird, 
Upon the whole, bright summer is 
The time to lay aside our " biz " 
For something like a month or so. 
And to some place of refuge go 
Where for awhile our minds may be 
From cares and tribulations free. 



The Seasons. 23 



AUTUMN. 

Since we to summer bid adieu 
The sky assumes a somber hue, 
More frequent now the clouds appear, 
A haze pervades the atmosphere. 
The heat is o'er by this we learn 
And will not for a while return. 
The autumn winds — oh, how they blow ! 
An indicat'on, well, you know 
That winter is not far away. 
Approaching nearer every day. 
The hickorynuts are ripe at last 
And to the ground are falling fast. 
While children in the highest glee 
Are scampering from tree to tree 
To pick them up and lay them by 
In some convenient place to dry, 
Where easily they may be found. 
When snow has covered up the ground. 
And winter with its chilling blast 
Has visited our home at last. 
T'he autumn leaves are falling too 
Where lately fell the sparkling dew, 
A zigzag course they downward take. 
Descending in each other's wake 
From every tree both great and small, 
'Tis one by one they droop and fall 



24 ^'^'c Seasons, 

As fast as they by frost are nipped 
Until the forest bare is stripped. 
The husbandman is now perhaps 
, Ah-eady up and on his " taps " 
Preparing for old winter grim 
That is expected soon by him ; 
The orchards are beyond dispute 
Well ladened with the finest fruit, 
While men and boys and lasses too 
Have work in plenty now to do, 
In picking up the apples fair 
And taking them to cellars, where 
They may be kept for winter use, 
Or manufactured into juice. 
The grass is changing fast in hue, 
And in perhaps a week or two 
It will be dead and crinkled down 
Its color of a reddish brown. 
O'er prairie lands away out West 
Where timber is in good request. 
The prairie fires will soon appear 
And change the landscape far and near, 
Will change it to a darker hue 
By far than frost is wont to do. 
Now, at this season of the year, 
As winter time approaches near. 
There sometimes is a week or so 
Of Indian summer, fine, you know, 



The Sensnn.^, 2 J 

When nature smiles, if smile she can, 

To cheer the heart and soul of man. 

When shines the sun in splendor down, 

On prairie, woodland, lake, or town. 

And warms to life the honeybee 

That lives content in some old tree. 

And also causes him to come 

From out his dungeon and to hum 

Around our heads, as through the gray 

Old forest grand we love to stay. 

The time, alas ! is now at hand 

When all the flowers throughout the land 

Must droop, and die, and pass away. 

No more their beauty to display. 

No more to mingle with the air 

Their fragrance sweet, delicious, rare. 

No more to charm or please the eye 

Of each and every passerby, 

For they, indeed, will soon be dead 

And strewn where we are wont to tread, 

And not until another year 

Will there another flower appear. 

Through trackless fields, high o'er the head^ 

The wild geese now, with pinions spread. 

Are passing on so blithe and gay 

To southern climes, far, far awav. 

Where they will stay till spring and then 

Back to the north return again. 



26 The Seasons, 

First in the fall and then the spring 

These water fowls are on the wing, 

And thus, you see, 'tis very clear 

They migrate twice in every year. 

Now is the time that we should go 

If we would hunt the buffalo. 

The elk, the deer, the antelope, 

Or with the grizzly bear would cope ; 

For fat indeed is now their meat 

And consequently nice to eat. 

We sometimes hunt the honey-bee 

In order just to find his tree, 

And sport it is, there's no mistake. 

If luck has followed in our wake, 

But when we find by looking round 

Success has not our eftorts crowned, 

'Tis anything but sport, you see. 

To hunt the little busy bee. 

Each time the earth revolves around 

More cold and damp becomes the ground 

Until of heat it is too scant 

To longer keep alive the plant. 

And thus, you see, 'tis day by day 

The autumn slowly wears away 

Till winter from his lengthy nap. 

Awakes and leaps in Autumn's lap. 



3Vee fScdfionl i^ 



WINTER. 

^Tis winter now and on the ground 

There's piles of snow for leagues around, 

And all about, outside the door, 

The ground is pierced a foot or more 

By old "Jack Frost," that queer old chap 

Who has his home in winter's lap ; 

For at this season of the 3^ear 

His presence is quite often near. 

The mercury has settled low 

In field or grove where'er you go. 

So cold the atmosphere is now 

We need no fans to cool the brow. 

So let them on the shelf remain 

Until the summer comes again. 

The very earth on which we tread. 

And e'en the heavens overhead. 

Proclaim in language strong and clear 

That 'tis a dismal time of year. 

The howling winds, oh how they blow ! 

And dash about the driven snow 

Which from above sifts down like sand, 

On every housetop in the land. 

When it has left its place of birth. 

And ere it settles to the earth, 

'Tis caught by wind that rushes past, 

And forced along before the blast 



28 [The, Seasons, 

Across the fields it swiftly flies, 
And lodges in our face and eyes, 
Then piles itself in many a heap 
That to a horse is belly deep. 
Above, below, where'er we gaze. 
There's nothing to draw forth our praise, 
Yon tree is of its clothing stripped, 
With ice its every twig is tipped, 
And now it stands exposed to frost, 
With all its crowning beauty lost. 
And e'en ♦:hat grand old forest, too 
Lends no enchantment to the view. 
Ah ! now it stands all stripped and bare, 
No more possessed of beauty rare, 
No longer does it charm the eye 
Of each and every passer by ; 
For now it does appear as gray 
As doth the sky at dawn of day. 
Within its depths no sound is heard 
That Cometh forth from beast or bird, 
The moaning of the wind is all 
The sound that on the ear doth fall, 
Since winter hath its pinions spread 
And flown to regions overhead, 
The babbling brook has lost its charms 
Since being clasped in icy arms, 
While now along its banks we stray 
No flowers are gathered by the way, 



The Seasons, 29 

The grass is dry, the flov^ers are dead, 

With ice its banks are fringed instead. 

No angler now with rod in hand 

Can be induced to make a stand ; 

For there is not a sing-le trout 

That can be seen to dart about. 

The basin where we used to swim 

Is frozen o'er from rim to rim, 

And makes a pleasant place to slide 

For boys and girls at eventide ; 

For when they have their books laid by 

Unto the basin they will hie. 

The mill pond, too, is frozen o'er. 

And bridged with ice from shore to shore, 

And here is where the skaters go 

To pass away an hour or so 

In gliding o'er the slippery ice, 

A sport by them considered nice. 

No busy bees can now be seen, 

i\nd everything that once was green 

Has since been changed to other hues. 

Enough to give a man the blues. 

The little birds, ah, vvhere are they } 

To climes they've flown far, far away, 

Their music now we can not hear, 

Which makes the season still more drear ; 

But at the first approach of spring 

Their notes will through the woodland ring. 



The Seasons — A itfofp-aph. 

The bear into his hole has crept 
Where he for six long weeks has slept, 
And will not come to light again 
Till some weeks longer he has lain. 
The ant has disappeared as well, 
And sought the confines of her cell ; 
But when the winter is no more 
She then will open wide her door. 
And issue from her dismal room 
Her labor to once more resume. 
The season is to say the least, 
A dreary one to man or beast, 
And like the dark unfriendly tomb 
It fills the mind with direst gloom ; 
But spring will soon return, and then 
Our hearts will joyous be again. 

AUTOGRAPH. 

A difficult task 'twould certainly be 
To point out a man from prejudice free, 
I 'd as soon think of climbing for peanuts 

a tree. 
Or raking for diamonds the deep blue sea. 



The Conductor. ^f 

THE CONDUCTOR. 

He is a gentleman in truth 

If ever there was one, 
He wears upon his face a smile 

Bright shining as the sun. 

He has a duty to perform, 

Is always at his post ; 
A kindly word he has for all — 

Of friends he has a host. 

A great responsibility 

Upon him rests, 'tis true. 
But only trust him and you'll see- 

He'll put you safely through. 

The place he occupies he fills, 

He surely knows his " biz," 
No other man could take his place 

x^nd be just what he is. 

He is the most composed of men 

And jocular besides, 
He laughs and jokes vehemently 

While on the rail he rides. 

He is accommodating ,too. 
As any man can be. 



32 7'he Conductor — Ejtitdph, 

Will often discommode himself 
To favor you or me. 

If you are old and tremulous 

He'll help you if he can, 
Upon the whole we think he is 

A most obliging man. 

But in his palace car should you 

Attempt to steal a ride, 
He '11 help you with that boot of his 

To find a place outside. 

There's one thing more we wish to say 

Before we bid adieu, 
And that is this, we'll guarantee 

That these few lines are true. 

EPITAPH, 

My race on earth alas is run, 
My cares are o'er, my labor done. 
And here at last lo! in the ground 
A resting place my form hath found ; 
While up above, through fields of light, 
My spirit takes its anxious flight. 
To mingle with some happy band 
That dwelletb in the spirit land. 



Hoic to Discrhninate Between liif/hf and Wrcnxj. 33 

HOW TO DISCRIMINATE BETWEEN RIGHT 
AND WRONG. 

It is an easy matter 

As we plod our way along, 
O'er life's tempestuous journey, 

To tell the right from wrong. 

For the consideration 

Of some beneath the sun, 
We'll tell in modern English 

Just how it can be done. 

Now, in our way of thinking, 
There can be nothing wrong, 

Unless some one is injured 
By word, or deed, or song. 

That which can harm or injure 

Ourself in any way ; 
In nowise can be righteous 

The hosts of heaven would say. 

That which can harm or injure 

A human or a brute. 
By no means can be righteous. 
This no one can dispute. 



34 



A Genius. 

But that which can not injure 
By deed, by word, or force. 

One soHtary being, 

Must needs be right, of course. 

A GENIUS. 

In hi« exterior he's rough, 

A fact that's known quite well enough. 

So in appearance he does not 

The vision please just to the dot ; 

But do not treat that man with scorn 

For really he 's a genius born, 

And not at all like other folks 

Who have their sport and crack their jokes, 

As he is one that seldom jests 

With those who have become his guests. 

He has been from his earliest youth 

An earnest seeker after truth, 

'Tis truth alone we always find 

That moulds and elevates the mind, 

For error never did nor can 

Do anything for mortal man 

That will enable him to rise 

To be a genius learned and wise. 

As benefactor of his race 



A Genius^ 35 

He occupies a lofty place, 

He's always doing what he can 

To benefit his fellowman, 

And one possessed of such a heart 

Is of humanity a part. 

And so, of course, we must insist 

He 's also a philanthropist 

In every sense of that great word 

That in a church is seldom heard. 

An earnest look is on his face, 

And one with half an eye can trace 

With but a very little care 

The lines of thought depicted there. 

An individual is he 

Possessed in very high degree 

With attributes you seldom find 

Developed in the human mind, 

Oh, yes ; he is a man of thought, 

And many a good thing has he wrought, 

Upon the table of the mind. 

That doubtless will remain behind 

When he is gone. Mankind will then 

Behold the magic of his pen, 

And better far, appreciate 

The works of one so truly great. 



^6 Tlie Friends of Youth. 

THE FRIENDS OF YOUTH. 

'Mong the friends we have made 

Through a Hfelong career, 
The friends of our youth 

Are by far the most dear ; 
Such a place in our hearts 

We are sure to them give 
That we ne'er can forget them 

So long as we live. 

Oh, the friends of my youth 

Ah ! where are they now ? 
No more will I greet them 

I am loth to allow. 
Their forms have all vanished, 

Not one can 1 see 
Wherever I wander 

Or chance for to be. 

They have strayed, widely strayed. 

From the place of their birth. 
Till now they are scattered 

All over the earth ; 
There's some of the number. 

And not very few, 
To earth and its trials 

Have bid an adieu. 



The Friends of Youth. 37 

Some have gone to the West 

In a search after gold, 
Expectnig their wealth 

To increase many fold, 
While others have taken 

Their chances at sea. 
And doubtless are leading 

A life bold and free. 

Far away to the South, 

In Dixie's fair land. 
Two or three, I believe. 

Have taken their stand. 
And here let me mention 

That some few there are, 
Have slipped away slyly. 

I can not tell where. 

But I'll think of them each, 

I '11 remember them all. 
Wherever I roam 

On this heavenly ball, 
And when we have met 

On eternity's shore 
Again we will greet 

As we used to of yore, 



38 Jim liroii'ii's ( 'on rlsh i !>. 



JIM BROWN^S COURTSHIP, 

As I was riding out one day, 
While I. was young and blithe and gay, 
1 chanced to meet a damsel sweet, 
She "sorter" blushed and so did I, 
We bowed and passed each other by. 

We met again still later on 

While rambling through the village lawn, 

This time I thought, as I had caught 

Her all alone, that I would try 

To speak before I passed her by. 

But when my lips were parted wide 
To let the words betwixt them slide. 
They did not come. Yes, I was dumb. 
For they had slipped away just then 
Beyond the reach of mortal ken. 

Again we met, as if by chance, 
'Twas at a little country dance, 
I learned her name and soon became 
Somewhat acquainted then and there 
With her I thought so fresh and fair. 



Jiin Broiciis Courtship. 39 

From that time on, with greatest pleasure, 

I called upon her at my leisure, 

For it was her I did prefer 

To any other girl I knew 

Beneath the vault of heaven so blue. 

As time passed on and I began 

To realize I was a man, 

And that my life without a wife 

Would be a blank — ere 'twas too late, 

I thought that I would know my fate. 

With some misgivings let me say, 
Towards her home I took my way, 
And at the door, as oft before. 
She met me with a pleasant smile 
And asked me in to stay awhile. 

She offered me an easy chair. 
And 'twas a nice one, I declare. 
So in the great armed chair my fate, 
To gain or lose the precious boon. 
Was to be learned that afternoon. 

I plucked up all the courage that 
I could command while there I sat 
Beside the one that very soon 
Must agonize or comfort me, 
By telling what my fate would be. 



40 The Progress of the Morning. 

I took her gently by the hand 

And in a manner somewhat bland, 

I asked her if she would be mated. 

She blushed, and then she hesitated, 

But for a moment, then replied, 

*' Oh, yes ; I'll be your bonny bride." 

Soon after that we married v/ere, 
My love to me and I to her, 
And ever since that great event, 
To be with her I am content, 
With legal right to hug and kiss. 
My life is now one round of bliss. 



THE PROGRESS OF THE MORNING, 

The dawn of day has just begun 

To open up a field of light. 
Behind it is the hidden sun. 

Before it what we see is night. 
For half an hour the chanticleer 

Has sounded loud his clarion horn, 
And well has done his little part 

To usher in the glorious morn. 
A flood of light will soon succeed 

The darkness that has reigned supreme, 



The Progress of the Jlonu'ng. 41 

For even now the sky^looks pale 

And earth puts^on a garb of green. 
Along^ the east horizon's rim 

Most lovely tints just now^ appear, 
Denoting that the orb of day 

Approaches in the distant rear. 
Tis one by one the glorious stars 

Are disappearing from the view, 
No longer shines the planet Mars, 

No longer falls the sparkling dew. 
No longer does the pale-faced moon 

In glory shine where now we tread, 
For yonder in the radiant east. 

The sun is lifting up his head. 
No longer need the gas to burn 

In parlor, dining room, or hall. 
For since the sun once more has risen 

There 's light in plenty for us all. 
And now that Sol has shown his face 

Aiid shed abroad his rays of light, 
Tl.e question that doth now arise, 

Is where, oh where, has flown the night.'^ 



EPIGRAM. 

Grand ideas, clothed in rhyme, 
Are among the things sublime, 



42 Fi<h)\'i Sol iliKiii ji. 

FIDO'S SOLILOQUY, 

I am a friendless dog 

From place to place I roam, 
There is no spot on earth 

That I can call my home. 
My case is so abject. 

So hopeless and forlorn, 
Oh, dear ! I sometimes wish 

I never had been born. 

My master up and died 

And I am left alone. 
So there is no one now 

To claim me as his own. 
Oh, 3'es, he 's dead and gone — 

The only friend I had — 
And I am left behind 

Unfortunate and sad. 

No farmhouse in the land 

Cares now to take me in, 
A homeless dog am I, 

And for sometime have been. 
I go from house to house 

In quest of food to eat 
Beseeching all I see 

To give me bread or meat. 



Fld</s Sollloqii If. 42 

A kick is what I get, , 
Or else perhaps a stone 

At rne direct is hurled 

Instead of flesh and bone. 
I then get up and get 

As any dog would do 
In Stockton or in Troy, 

In Jimtown or Peru. 

Another house I seek 

And there perhaps a gun 
At me will be discharged 

Just for to see me run. 
And thus my very life 

Is harrassed day by day, 
No peace is there for me 

Since master passed away. 

Since I have homeless been 

A wanderer on the street 
I'm treated " like a dog " 

By every one I meet, 
Till I am quite forlorn, 

As all can plainly see. 
No friend in all the world 

To sooth or pity me. 



A^ Fi<hii\s Sol ilixjii ji — Epltii ph . 

My jig of life methinks 

Will very soon be up, 
But then I've had my day, 

I had it while a pup. 
But still I want to live, 

I know no reason why, 
Although my life's a <?or/',v 

I do not wish to die. 

The foregoing lines were suggested to the mind 
of the writer by a stray dog coming on his premises 
and the way he was treated by the boys who hap- 
pened to get their eyes on him about the time he 
reached the house. 

Let me say that that dog didn't tarry long, but 
took his departure up the lane, about as fast as his 
legs could carry him, and was soon out of sight. 



J' 



EPITAPH, 

There lies within this narrow grave 
A seaman who was bold and brave ; 
But we will not bewail his lot. 
Since he has gone beyond this vale 
Of tears no more on seas to sail, 



The Hionnn Form. ■ 45 

THE HUMAN FORM. 

In getting up the human form 

Ingenious was the plan, 
As man was for the woman made 

And woman for the man. 

How great indeed the contrast is 

Between the man and beast ; 
They differ with each other in 

A hundred ways at least. 

Unlike the beast, the human form 

Was curiously planned. 
Erect or perpendicular 

'Twas made to walk or stand. 

■ 
When only clad in Nature's robe 

'Tis viewed with fond delight. 
O, what an object to behold! 

It is a glorious sight. 

There's not in all the world throughout 

A grander sight than this; 
It charms the eye amazingly, 

And fills the soul with bliss. 

Symmetrical in all its curves, 
Superlative and fine. 



46 The IT lima n Form — Art Acrostic 

No other object is there like 
The human form divine. 

The zebra may be beautiful, 

But it will not compare 
In beauty with the maiden's form, 

So delicate and fair. 

No wonder, then, that artists say 

On being interviewed, 
The subject they prefer is one 

That is entirely nude. 



AN ACROSTIC. 

By request of Mrs. Lela Knaus, the author wrote 
the following acrostic in her album : 

Life is like unto a river, 

Ever gliding on so free, 

Losing naught, but gaining something. 

As it nears the deep, blue sea. 

Knowledge is the one thing needful, 
No one can this fact deny. 
And as all are upward tending, 
Underneath a tranquil sky, 
Soitte may rise to stations high. 



A Fine Old Lady. 47 

A FINE OLD LADY. 

I am going down to Ogden, 

Wichin a week or two, 
To see a fine old lady 

That years ago I knew. 

I'm not a going to court her — 

O, no, sir; not at all. 
My object is to make her 

What's termed a friendly call. 

Her age is fifty-seven. 

Or somewhere thereabout. 
She's far from being feeble. 

But vigorous and stout. 

She is but little wrinkled. 

Her form is quite erect. 
She stands five feet six inches — 

Near as I recollect. 

In pounds she weighs two hundred, 

If Fairbanks tell the truth, 
And yet she is as active 

As many in their youth. 

It is no easy matter 

To span around her waist. 



4S A Fhie Ohl Lmhj. 

She dresses right in fashion. 
And with exquisite taste. 

Her garments fit her neatly; 

They touch just where they ought. 
Which adds a charm to beauty, 

As I have often thought. 

This lady is my mother, 
The comfort of my life. 

I love her as no other, 

Except, perhaps, my wife. 

There is no use of talking, 
A good old " ma" is she. 

O, yes; she is perfection. 
As near as one can be. 

And why should I not see her, 

- And pour into her ear 
My kind congratulations 
She likes so well to hear. 

So I'll go down to Ogden 
And spend a day or two 

In visiting my mother 
As any one would do. 



Ou Immortality. 

ON IMMORTALITY, 

Come to me now, my angel guid.e, 

For in thy views I coincide; 

And by thy intellectual light, 

Impress upon my mind to-night 

Some lofty thoughts, and good that may 

Eventually find their way, 

With all their truths and logic, too, 

Into the minds of people who 

Are not too prejudiced to read 

The contents of another's creed. 

Kind reader, now I turn to thee. 

Whoever you rnay chance to be, 

And will reveal to thee alone 

Some sweet experience of my own. 

I feel there is — have felt so years, 

A life beyond this vale of tears; 

1 do not onl} feel but know 

That certainly it must be so, 

From evidence that is to me 

As positive as it can be. 

Although it may not, it is true. 

Be any evidence to you. 

Now let us reason, and we'll see 

If you and I cannot agree 

Upon one point, and fully, too, 



49 



c^o On Immortality. 

That I shall now present to view. 

'Tis contrary to nature's laws 

That there should be, or ever was, 

A strong desire implanted in 

The breast, unless some means had been 

Provided for the full and free 

Gratification — do you see? 

Of that desire, which from the start 

Has been inherent in the heart. 

Now, if we have a strong desire 

To live, and rise a little higher, 

To live and love forevermore, 

To meet our dear ones gone before, 

And with them dwell in peace and love. 

Beyond the grave, in realms above, 

O then there has been means, I say, 

Provided for us in some way, 

Or else these great desires you'd find 

Would never occupy the mind. 

It proves the fact right out and out, 

Beyond the shadow of a doubt, 

That we shall dwell in brighter spheres 

When we have left this vale of tears. 

This is the grand conclusion that 

A man will in the end come at. 

If he will exercise his powers 



''Every Don ^^^^ Have His Dayr 51 

Of reason in his leisure hours, 
O, yes it is a truth subhme 
And aged as old father Time. 



J' 



''EVERY DOG WILL HAVE HIS DAY/' 

'Tis an adage full of truth, 

One that has survived its youth 

For we cannot call it young. 

Since it has by every tongue, 

For a century or more. 

Been repeated o'er and o'er; 

Here's the adage, let me see 

Whether you and I agree, 

"Every dog will have his day,'' 

This at least is what they say. 

Some will have it while a pup, 

Others when they are grown up, 

Some will feast on bread and meat, 

And all else that's good to eat. 

While they're young, but when they're old 

Hungry they will be and cold, 

Not a friend in all the land 

That will lend a helping hand, 



52 ''Evenj Doff Will TTare His Dai/.^' 

Thus they're driven from post to post 
Till they've given up the ghost. 
Other dogs will better fare 
When they're aged and the care 
That they absolutely need 
W]ll be given them indeed; 
They'll be clothed in garments warm. 
Be protected from all harm, 
E'en through luxuries they'll wade 
Till beneath the turf they're laid; 
But perhaps when they were young 
O'er the world they had been flung, 
Kicked by this one, cuffed by that, 
And by others scolded at. 
Till they wished with looks forlorn 
That they never had been born. 
Here the question now comes up. 
Would you rather while a pup 
Have your day, or wait till when 
You are old and have it then? 
I for one would have my day 
Come when I am old and gray. 
For I really think it would 
Do me then the greatest good. 



The Hell Doctrine Censured. 53 



THE HELL DOCTRINE CENSURED, 

There is no local hell 

Within the realms of space. 

Although some people say 
That there is such a place. 

They also say that tens 

Of millions souls, there are, 

Upon the broad highway 
That leads directly there. 

A loving father has 

Made no such place as hell, 

Where the immortal soul 
In agony shall dwell. 

'Tis sacrilege to say — 

Aye more, it is a sin, 
That He has built a pit 

To cast his children in. 

It really is absurd 

To think that One so wise. 
Beneficent and good 

Should such a thing devise. 



^4 ^^'6 //e// Doctrine Ceni^vred, 

Oh, what a sad belief, 
For mind to entertain,' 

It brings the heart to grief 
If not to woe and pain. 

The doctrine will not do 
To preach to people more, 

We're now too far advanced 
In scientific lore. 

It is the offspring of 

A dark benighted mind, 

And its adherents are 
At least an age behind. 

There was. perhaps a time, 
The doctrine might have done 

To practice and to preach, 
By each and every one. 

But that dark age has passed — 
Has passed away and we. 

With vision quite improved. 
To-day can clearer see. 

Oh, for a thousand tongues 
The doctrine to proclaim. 

That hell is but a myth 
Existing but in name. 



The IleU Doctrine VindicafeiL 55 

THE HELL DOCTRINE VINDICATED, 

There is a local hell 

Within the realms of space. 
Although some people say 

There is no such place. 

The Bible says there is 

Just such a place as hell, 
Where sinners doubtless will 

In the hereafter dwell. 

A loving Father has 

Constructed such a place, 
Where the immortal soul 

Shall languish in disgrace. 

It is no sacrilege 

To say. He's built a pit 
For beings that will not 

To his decrees submit. 

It can not be absurd 

To think that one should say, 

Depart from me! ye cursed. 
My rules you disobey. 



56 The Hell Doctrine Vhidicaied^ 

'Tis not a sad belief 
For mind to entertain, 

It brings but little grief 
And not a whit of pain. 

The doctrine has been good 
To preach in ages past, 

There is no reason why 

It should be dropped at last. 

It may be that it was 
The offspring of a mind 

Not very far advanced 
In arts of any kind. 

Yet be this as it may, 

The fact we shall sustain. 

Its tendency is such 
As often to restrain. 

For who'd commit a crime, 

A folly or a sin, 
If really he believed 

That hell would take him in. 

Oh, for a thousand tongues! 

The doctrine to proclaim. 
That hell to-day exists 

In fact as well as well as name. 



An Odd Mart. §7 

AN ODD MAN. 

In York there lives a man of fame 

And Simon Peter is his name, 

His age is thirty-two or three, 

No more nor less in years is he, 

His height, me thinks, upon a pinch, 

Would measure six feet and an inch ; 

His weight is five score pounds and ten — 

Less than the average weight of men — 

And so it may be said of him. 

His form is somewhat tall and slim. 

As straight as any cob is he. 

And that is straight enough to be, 

Upon his foot he wears a shoe 

By far too large for me or you. 

Oh, yes, it is too large by half. 

And can not but provoke a laugh. 

His " pants," it can not be denied, 

Were cut and made to fit the hide. 

And by a foot, at least, too short — 

To tell the truth, this is the sort 

Of " pants" that he is wont to wear 

At home, abroad, or anywhere. 

Short-waisted is his coat and tight, 

Whatever is they say is right, 

And so, of course, that coat of his 



58 A}i 0(hl M<nu 

Should be exactly what it is ; 

Like other coats, save coats of mail, 

This coat of his has got a tail, 

And buttons up, methinks, before, 

And not behind, as coats of yore. 

His vest, as well as pants and coat, 

Is much too small, we here must note. 

And yet, by using extra force. 

The " riffle " he will make, of course, 

And get them on that ill-shaped form 

Without much risk of doing harm. 

His hat is of the '• stove-pipe" kind, 

For him alone it was designed, 

And makes this gentleman appear 

To human eyes so very queer. 

His head he carries quite erect 

In order to command respect. 

And when he walks, O gracious sakes ! 

What awful strides our hero makes. 

He is a bachelor, as yet, 

For really he has never met 

The one who is designed to be 

The mistress of his destiny. 

A courting he will sometimes go 

And sit and chat like any beau, 

When all at once the ill bred wretch 

Will gape and then begin to stretch. 



A)i Odd 3fan. 

So like as not she'll him dismiss 

Without a prospect of a kiss. 

Although his head is rife with curls 

He does not take among the girls. 

And so, ot course, our friend is far 

From being very popular, 

The chances are that Simon may 

Live single yet for many a day. 

When Sunday comes to church he'll go, 

In spite of rain, or hail, or snow. 

And sometimes on his arm will bear 

Some spinster gay who once was fair, 

To whom he pays his kind respects 

Despite her wrinkles or defects. 

When once inside the chapel door 

He'll cast his eye upon the floor, 

And with a measured tread and slow 

Will saunter up the aisle as though 

He felt embarrassed and would say. 

Please look, dear friends, some other way 

And when once seated in his pew 

He then will wriggle, twist and screw. 

Himself about as if he felt 

A sort of tickling 'neath his belt. 

The service o'er he then would take 

The preacher by the hand and shake 

With all his might as if he had 



59 



6o An Odd Man. 

Not seen him since he was a lad, 

And thus his oddities are seen 

In church, as well as on the green. 

His tastes are quite peculiar, too, 

With tastes like his there are but few, 

He'd kiss a colored girl as soon, 

We do believe, as any one. 

A man of fame he'd rather see 

Than visit a menagerie 

Or any place that is unchaste. 

So curious is Simon's taste. 

Of principle he is a man, 

To do a wrong he never can, 

It is believe he 'd rather die 

Than wish to represent a lie. 

As honest as the day is long. 

The weak he'll aid as well as strong ; 

When troubles smite his brother man 

He will assist him if he can ; 

And thus his life is being spent 

In acts and deeds benevolent, 

Although as odd as Dixie's hat 

He is a man for all of that. 



Lines to Maud. 6i 

LINES TO MAUD, 

I'll write you, dear Maud, 

A poem and tell 
How long I have loved 

And also how well, 
Unless I have help 

From angels above, 
I never can tell 

How truly 1 love. 

My earnest desire 

Is now that they may 
Impart to my mind 

Just what I would say, 
In language most clear, 

Majestic, sublime, 
And handsomely couched 

In beautiful rhyme. 

Some years have I loved. 

Will even aver 
I loved you quite well 

When children we were, 
I called you my pet 

When you were but ten, 



62 Lines to Jfrnid. 

Right frolicsome were 
The times we had then. 

Together we roamed 

Through forest and dell. 
We talked about this 

And that very well, 
We greatly admired 

The birds and the flowers, 
And with them we spent 

Our happiest hours. 

We sometimes would chase 

The butterfly gay, 
And catch him unless 

He fluttered away; 
And then we would rest, 

So tired we would be, 
Beneath the deep shade 

Of some favorite tree. 

We often would clime 
That picturesque hill, 

So rugged and steep 
Just back of the mill. 

And when we were up 



Lilies to Maud. 6^3 

We'd pass away hours, 
Delightfully spent 
In gathering flowers. 

yes, they were hours 
I ne'er shall forget, 

And oft does my mind 

Revert to them yet, 
Although a decade 

Has passed since that time, 
And now you are in 

Sweet maidenhood's prime. 

1 have for you, Maud, 

A love that is true, 
Most sacredly kept. 

For no one but you, 
'Tis all I have got 

That I can bestow. 
On one I am sure 

I very well know. 

That which is to me 

Of mighty concern, 
Is what I would ask 

Of you in return. 



64 Lin eft to Jfaitd. 

A hijnd disengaged 
A heart that is true, 

Is what I desire, 

M}' darhng, from you. 

So now let me ask 

A question of thee, 
Wilt thou, dearest Maud, 

My loving wife be? 
For here I must say 

With emphasis strong. 
Without you, 'tis plain, 

I can't get along. 

In greatest suspense 

I'll patiently wait, 
To learn from your pen 

My absolute fate; 
And should you see fit 

To grant my request. 
No mortal could be 

More happily blest. 



MrnnVs Ansirer. 65 

MAUDES ANSWER. 

I scarcely can tell 

In poetry true, 
Just what I should say 

In answer to you. 
I do not believe 

The angels above, 
Have much here to do 

In matters of love. 

Be this as it may, 

Your words, if sincere. 
Your feelings express 

Most vivid and clear; 
Your poetry, Jack, 

Depend upon it. 
Is right to the point 

I'll have to admit. 

When I was a child 

And aged but ten. 
You loved me right well 

You say, even then; 
O yes, I believe 

You tell me the truth. 



(36 Maud's Answer. 

In saying you loved 
Me when but a youth. 

You flattered me some 

By calling me pet, 
A name, I am sure, 

I ne'er shall forget, 
The naine I declare 

Was sweet to my ear, 
But one I must say 

I nevermore bear. 

We talked when we roamed, 

We laughed when we played, 
We saw every move 

That each other made. 
And some of the words 

That dropped from your tongue 
I could not forget. 

If doomed to be hung. 

The birds and the flowers, 
Without them, you know, 

We never would have 
Enjoyed ourselves so. 

And there was the gay, 



21 a u (V s A n s tr er. 67 

Bright butterfly, too, 
I well recollect 

We oft would pursue. 

And then as you say, 

A while we would rest, 
For sometimes we would 

With heat be oppressed, 
Perhaps for that day. 

No more would we roam, 
But take up our march 

Across the fields home. 

The hours that we spent 

On top of the hill, 
Quite frequently haunt 

My memory still; 
The flowers that we picked 

B}^ each other's side, 
Long since to be sure 

Have withered and died. 

But not so the love 

Contained in your heart, 
It seems to be fresh 

As 'twas in the start, 



68 MfuuVs Answer. 

The love that you have 
No doubt is sincere, 

Or 'twould not have stood 
A test so severe. 

You ask me to be 

Your loving wife, sir, 
And so I conclude 

'Tis me you prefer, 
To all other girls 

On land or on sea. 
Your other half, Jack, 

In future to be. 

I'll answer you, sir, 

As any girl should. 
In words that cannot 

Be misunderstood, 
And now you shall have 

My answer in black; 
O yes, I will be 

Your loving wife, Jack. 



To a Departed Friend. 69 



TO A DEPARTED FRIEND. 

Trying was that hour of parthig 
With thee sister from our home, 

Conscious that thou wast then starting 
Sick and feeble for to roam. 

To restore thy form to vigor 

We could sighing part with thee, 

Not aware that death's cold rigor * 
Soon would set thy spirit free. 

Vision cannot now behold thee 

Anywhere I turn the face. 
With the dead we have enrolled thee 

Since on earth thou'st run thy race. 

Far from home and all its pleasure 

Angels bid thy spirit rise, 
Gently bearing off the treasure 

As a trophy to the skies. 

Called away from friends and neighbors 
Thou hast sunk into the tomb. 

To depart from all thy labors 

Thou wast called in life's full bloom. 



70 To (I Dc/Hirfed Fn'e/)(J. 

Sad and lonely thou hast left us 
Here to linger much distressed, 

But the hand that hath bereft us 
Doeth all things for the best. 

So we will not now deplore thee, 

Dweller of that spirit land, 
Millions have gone on before thee 

Great indeed must be the band. 

But we are in hopes to meet thee 

On that bright ethereal shore. 
Where with pleasure we may greet thee 

As we used to heretofore. 

The above lines were written upon hearing of 
the death of Miss Aurelia Cowles, who went from 
one of the Western States to Ohio for her health 
while in a feeble condition, and died in a short time 
after reaching the end of her journey. Her age was 
twenty, her disease consumption, I believe. 



Agn'cuUnrc. 7' 



AGRICULTURE, 

Who would not be farmer 

To cultivate the soil, 
And earn an honest living 

By necessary toil? 
It is to man a credit 

To raise his daily bread, 
As v^ell as other products 

On which the world is fed. 

To plow and drill and harrow, 

To cultivate and hoe. 
There's naught that is ignoble 

About the work 1 know; 
It gives us health and vigor, 

A constitution strong. 
Which are so necessary 

To an existance long. 

It is an occupation 
That is to be desired, 

For wealth and independence 
By it can be acquired; 



Aifriciflfure. 

To gain the end in question 
Industrious we must be, 

Then practice in connection 
A strict economy. 

Among all occupations 

We really cannot find, 
One of so much importance, 

So useful to mankind; 
In fact it is the lever 

That moves the whole concern, 
It sets the wheel in motion 

And causes it to turn. 

yes, I'd be a farmer, 
Likewise a granger, too, 

And get an honest living 

As all good people do; 
So when this world is fading 

Forever from my view, 

1 can with satisfaction 
Bid it and all adieu. 



The liiibber Comb. 73 

THE RUBBER COMB. 

The following lines were written on finding a 
rubber comb : 

As I was riding out one day, 

Not very far from home away, 

I saw before me in the track, 

A something that in hue was black, 

I saw, as I just now have said, 

A something in the road ahead, 

On grasping it I now was bent 

And stopped my team with that intent. 

To guess a week I'm satisfied 

You could not tell what I espied; 

It was a thing of beauty rare, 

Intended for the shining hair. 

And nothing but a rubber comb 

Some girl had lost, while out from home. 

I picked it up right then and there, 

I handled it with greatest care, 

I viewed it o'er and o'er again. 

Likewise the spot where it had lain; 

I pressed it to my heart and said. 

Its place is on some fair one's head, 

Instead of on the cold, damp ground, 

Where it by me had just been found. 

I pondered then upon its cost. 



y^ ^'^'^ lifihher (Unnb. 

And also how it had been lost, 

And what its owner must have said 

When firstshe missed it from her head. 

These were about the thoughts Ifind, 

That took possession of my mind. 

Undoubtedly its cost was small, 

Not more than fifty cents in all, 

But fifty cents does not, you know, 

On every bush spontaneous grow, 

Until a thing of use is lost 

We think but little of its cost; 

I may not do it very well 

Yet I will undertake to tell. 

Just how methinks while out from home, 

This lady lost her rubber comb. 

She and her lover took a walk 

That they might have a friendly talk. 

And when they reached this lonely spot 

He strict propriety forgot. 

Thought he, I cannot bear to miss 

So good a chance to steal a kiss, 

And as he was a man of tact 

He fixed his lips and then he smacked. 

Not being in a kissing mood. 

Nor wishing that way to be wooed, 

As quick as thought her head she tossed 

And thus it was the comb was lost. 



More Trnfh Than Poetry. 75 



MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY. 



I was born in York State, 
August thirty-two, 

Father was the first man 
That I ever knew. 



Mother was a woman 
Lovely and refined. 

Somewhat hke an angel 
Gentle, good, and kind. 

I was born of parents 
Who were poor indeed, 

So I made another 

For to clothe and feed. 



Still they struggled onward, 
Did the best they could, 

Working for a living — 
Everybody should. 

When I was a stripling 
I set out to work, 



^6 More Truth Than Poetry. 

Toiling like a beaver 
Not disposed to shirk. 

But in time I wearied, 
Tired of toiling so, 

Thought I would do something 
Pleasanter, you know. 

So I thought I'd travel, 
Bid my home adieu 

And toward the sunset 
Struck for regions new. 

Then I crossed the river — 
Jordan I've not seen, 

But the Mississippi 
Is the one I mean. 

I have roamed the prairie, 
Angels by my side — 

When it seemed as boundless 
As the ocean wide. 

I have met the red man. 
Met him face to face,' 

But alone I let him 

In each spot and place. 



More Triifh Than Poetry, 77 

1 have climbed the mountain, 

Wandered o'er the plain, 
Camped among the sagebrush 

Time and time again. 

I have chased v^ild the deer, 

Chased the antelope, 
Through a region trackless 

Down the mountain slope. 

I have viev^ed w^ith pleasure 

From some rocky cliff, 
Peaks as full of grandeur 

As old Tenneriffe. 

I have seen quite often 

With my eager eyes. 
Hood's majestic summit 

Loom asrainst the skies. 



I have seen Mount Shasta 
Laden well with snow. 

But it was, I reckon. 
Twenty years ago. 



78 More Truth Than Poetrij 

I have gazed with wonder 

Into canyons deep 
Where the waters tumble, 

Dash, and foam, and leap. 

I have seen the ocean, 
Plowed the raging main, 

Never saw I Scotland, 

England, France, or Spain, 

I have seen Lake Erie 

When the waves dashed high, 

Other men have seen it 
Too as well as I. 



Once I have ascended 

Sacramento's tide, 
Where the sands are golden 

'Neath the surface wide. 

There 's the great Columbia 
In the distant West, 

I have slumbered sweetly 
On her peaceful breast 



More Truth Than Poetry. 79 

Ihave dug for gold-dust, 

Shoveled night and day, 
But I will acknowledge 
That it didn't pay. 

J have bathed with pleasure 

Where the waters take 
For their appellation 

That of Great Salt Lake. 



I've seen the broad Atlantic, 

Heard her sullen roar, 
As her waves gigantic 

Break upon the shore. 

I was at the World's Fair, 

Eighteen ninety-three. 
Men were there from York State, 

Some from Tennessee. 

Yet in all my rambles 

Over regions wide, 
I can say with candor, 

Tm not satisfied. 



So ^1 i(to(ir<ii)h — fiis/i/rfiffon. 



AUTOGRAPH. 

My autograph, 1 reckon, 

You want in black and white, 
But I can think of nothing 

Of interest to write. 
So let me kindly ask you. 

Before these lines I end, 
To note this in your day-book, 

That T remain ijovr friend. 



•f 



INSPIRATION. 

"The tidal wave of deeper souls 
Into our inmost being rolls," 

And lifts us up until we gain 
A passport to a higher plane. 



The Wefhh'ng. 8i 



THE WEDDING. 

Harry Stone was here to-dav 

With his darhng Nelhe Gray, 

Standing up they married were, 

She to him and he to her. 

When the ceremony was 

In accordance with tlie laws 

Well performed by Uncle Ned, 

^arry kissed his bride and said, 

•' As Tm yours and you are mine, 

Jf we'd make our lives sublime, 

We should kind and pleasant be, 

I to you and you to me." 

Then she said to Harry Stone, 

Speaking in an undertone, 

''Treat me well and I'll be yours 

Just as long as life endures ; 

L'ke the angels up above 

We should live in peace and love, 

If we l)oth would happy be." 

Then he paid his marriage fee. 

Took a step toward the door, 

Turned and kissed his bride once more. 

Locking arms they sought the street. 

Hastening down, the train to meet, 



82 The Wcjhh'tH/ — A >i f<>(jr<i i)h . 

As it then came dashing on, 
Boardin^ it they soon were gone, 
And before the sun was down 
Were some distance out of town. 
This is all we must admit, 
That there is or was of it. 



J' 



AUTOGRAPH. 

I'm bound to write something original, 
If there's no sense at all in it, 

I guess there will be but a little, 
And you will say so in a minute. 



The Better Land:' 83 



'THE BETTER LAND/' 

There is a land, we know right well, 

Beyond this realm where angels dwell. 

It is a land of joy and bliss, 

And is the counterpart of this, 

Its streets may not be paved with gold 

As we have been so often told; 

And yet we are inclined to say 

That all things there are bright and gay. 

Sweet flowers abound on every side, 

Extending o'er areas wide; 

And rivers, absolutely grand 

Majestic flow throughout that land. 

There's oceans too that ebb and flow 

Just like the ones we have below; 

And all around is to be seen 

Luxuriant foliage and green, 

Suspended from the trees that stand 

As proud, magnificient, and grand, 

As any that we here behold 

Deep rooted in an earthly mold. 

There's verdant vales, and mountains too, 

That "Lend enchantment to the view," 

And makes one feel as if he would 

Gaze on them ever if he could. 



84 "27?e Better LancV — AutographSs 

Such loveliness and beauty rare 

Is to be met with everywhere; 

No wonder then the angel band 

Consider that the "Better Land," 

From thi.s 'tis separated by 

A haze so thin the human eye, 

Can almost pierce it through and through 

And take of that fair land a view. 

And yet there are but few, you know, 

Compared with all that dwell below. 

That do believe, or ever can, 

A fact so strange to mortal man, 

AUTOGRAPHS. 

About their authenticity — 
These lines are mine and don't you doulit it, 

I write them here as they appear 
And that is all there is about it. 

Variety, variety, 
Who does not love variety? 

The high, the low, the rich, the poor, 
All love variety, Vm sure. 



The Tramp. 8^ 



THE TRAMR 

For the last few hours I've been knocking about 

Till I'm tired and sleepy and nearly worn out. 

I'm really a tramp, as most people know, 

Yet somewhat unwilling to be reckoned so, 

I'm ragged and dirty and saucy to boot, 

And really considered a miserable coot. 

Yet have I affection both sincere and true, 

A heart that is tender as any of you; 

Biit/rt^e has been cruel as cruel could be 

In all of her antics while dealing with me. 

Some talents had I, as a matter of course, 

But was not possessed of one bit of force, 

And so I grew up as some people do 

Without understanding what course to pursue. 

At first I concluded a trade I would learn 

That by it I might a livelihood earn, 

But soon to my sorrow I found it required 

Some labor which made me most shockingl} tl-ied^ 

And so I concluded it never would do 

To work at a business so hard to pursue. 

I frankly admit that work I despised 

As the facts in the case should not be disguised. 

Accordingly then I threw up my trade 

And thought I would write for the Trifn/ne or JJlatle^ 



86 The T I'd nip. 

But somehow or other my articles were 
A little too prosy to be popular. 
xA-nd 1 found very soon to my grief and dismay, 
I hat writing for others to read didn't pay, 
For soon, very soon, I had not a dime 
And so was compelled to go it on time. 
But that as a matter of consequence could 
Not last very long, and my credit keep good, 
But when it played out I found that I had 
No resource by which to keep myself clad. 
And what to do next I scarcely could tell, 
Although 1 was muscular, hearty, and well. 
But as time rolled along I happened to think 
There might be more money in wind than ink: 
I knew very well I could whistle and sing 
But io preach and succeed was a diiierent thing, 
For a good gift of gab is always required 
In preaching the gospel unless one's inspired. 
To preach I resolved, and at it I went, 
My breath for a season most freely I spent. 
But alas, not a sold did my preaching convert 
Though strange it may seem, the truth I assert. 
On preaching awhile the hat was sent 'round 
To take a collection, and in it I found 
A nickle as shining and bright as you please 
That someone had given, his conscience to ease; 
"Twas enough to provoke, or I thought so at leaset. 



The Tramp. 6j 

A saint or a sinner, a devil or priest; 

But when I reflected and thought the thing o'er 

My anger subsided to rile me no more, 

I thought of my nickle, it filled me with mirth, 

And I owned that 'twas all that my preaching wa>% 

worth. 
The facts in the case were substantially these, 
No more could I p'each in the absence of fees; 
My breeches were old and very much worn. 
My coat and my vest were ragged and torn; 
My hat was more ''holy" than righteous by far, 
No h;it was more "holy'' in all of Lamar; 
\[\ socks had begun to give out at the toes, 
And 'twas plain I must have a new suit of clothes, 
But how to obtain them could any one tell, 
Since preaching had not turned out very well? 
But I soon found the means to purchase and pay 
For a good suit of clothes in a different way; 
Just how it was done I'll not tell you now 
l-^or it matters but little to any one how. 
When tastily robcil from my head to my feet 
I cancluded I would Irom my old haunts retreat^ 
So I stepped on the train and it bore me away 
To the far distant West where ti.e wild waters play. 
O'er the gravel and sand, mixed with golddust so tine 
To mingle at last with an ocean of brine. 
A stranger was I in the land I had sought 



88 The Tramp. 

But I soon found friends, or at least so I thought. 

For a while I was at a great loss what to do 

In a region so strange, so rugged and new, 

13 it the matter I soon debided, and then 

I used iri connection my tongue and my pen; 

The one I would wag through the Hvelong day 

And the other at night would rriy dictates obey. 

' Twas ojfice that I was seeking for then 

That busied so much my tongue and my pen; 

'Twas o^pice I wanted, 'twas ojice I sought, 

It occupied all of my time and my thought; 

And even when sleep my eyelids would close 

Atul all of my senses seemed hushed in repose, 

'Tv\as then that the subject would haunt me iu dr.-a us 

And worry me more than all other themes. 

But when the election was over and past 

And all of the votes for candidates cast, 

Were counted and strung, 'twas then ascertained 

That nothing for me in the ballot was gained. 

Chagrined as I was at my signal defeat 

My only alternative was to retreat, 

To some distant region where I was unknown. 

For in this connection I candidly own 

My credit was almost entirely played out 

I'd treated my patrons so much all about, 

My bills had become so large, by the way. 

That I had not the means or the wherewith to pay, 



The Tramp — 31 y Little Maid, 89 

Defeated anci somewhat despised as I was 

And not understanding exactly the cause, 

I shook, as it were, from my garrrients the dust 

And then from all business retired in disgust. 

Since then I've become what the world calls a tramp 

And not only this but a miserable scamp. 



MY LITTLE MAID, 

I've hugged her good, I have indeed, 

A hundred times or more. 
Have kissed her time and time again 

Until my lips were sore. 

I've pressed her to my throbbing heart 

And held her there until 
She would consent no longer to 

Be governed by my will. 

I've kissed her on the brow so fair, 

As well as cheek and chin, 
My lips to her's I oft have pressed 

And thought it was a sin. 



90 Lore — Mil Lit fit Vai^/. 

I've tried in almost every way 
To make her comprehend 

How near and dear she i"^ to me 
And that I am her friend. 

1 have exhausted every means 
Within my power to win 

Her confidence, and make her know 
How faithful I have been. 

But still she eyes me with distrust 
And pulls out all my hair, 

To be thus used by baby dear 
Is more than I can bear. 



LOVK 



a ' 



Tis better to have loved and lost 
Th;iti never to have loved at all," 
Is what I heard a stranger say 

One evening at a New Year's ball. 

Perhaps he might have been sincere 

An thought that what he said was true, 



Love, 

But be this matter as it may, 
I entertain a different view. 

The hea-t that has sincerely loved, 

Must be o'er whelmed with grief and pain 

When fully made to realize, 

That it has loved, and loved in vain. 

There is no balm in Gillead 

That hath sufficient power to heal, 

The heart that, once has loved and lost 
The object of its misspent zeal. 

The heart that has been thus depressed 
VVill never more, it seems to me, 

Rejoice a^'ain as hearts rejoice 

That have been from love-sickness free. 

But this I'm willinor to admit, 

And have it written on the wall, 

Tis better to have loved and von 
Than never to have lov ed at all. 



92 The ChihVs Wish. 

THE CHILD^S WISH, 

'Twas Christmas day and all around 
The snow lay deep upon the ground, 
And everywhere outside the door 
Cold winter reigned as oft before, 
And as the snow was shining bright 
Emitting an efi^ulgent light, 
The snow-birds gay, so blithe and free, 
Were having quite a jubilee; 
Above the snow, so pure and white. 
They'd circle 'round and then alight, 
And then again upon the wing 
They'd fairly make the welkin ring; 
Just then a child was heard to say, 
'T wish I were a snow-bird gay. 
To fly about from place to place 
Without a nurse to wash my face." 
For to the child it seemed that they 
Enjoyed themselves that Christmas day, 
Although the sun coiupletely failed 
To give out warmth, and frost prevailed, 
And everything that could be seen 
Was clothed in white instead of green. 
And yet these birds, it seemed to me, 
Were happy as they well could be. 
Although they had no shelter to 



The ChiUVs Wish. 

Protect them from the sun and dew, 

Or from the storm whose surly blast, 

Like demons wild, goes rushing past; 

They have no clothes to keep them warm 

Or shield them from the angry storm, 

No parents dear to teach them why 

They should not cheat or tell a lie; 

They have no home where they may go 

And he secure from ice and snow, 

When they are tired and sleepy too 

No one have they that's kind and true, 

To put them in their downy bed 

And kiss them ere good night is said 

No one have they to tuck them up 

Or give them catr.ip tea to sup, 

Or see their bed-room door is closed 

When they are slightly indisposed. 

As had this discontented child 

Who wished herself a snow-bird wild. 

They have no one to give them toys 

As do our little girls and boys, 

They cannot read, they cannot write, 

'I hey know not how to be polite. 

They could not make a genteel bow 

Were they to try, they know not how, 

They cannot play at hide and seek 

Nor twist their little tongues to speak. 



93 



04 Tlx' ChlUVs Wish. 

And now about the snow-birds fare, 

His food he picks up here and there. 

About his bed o/ie thing we know 

And that it is a bed of snow, 

He has no fire to warm his toes 

When they are cold and ahnost froze, 

'Tis evident he must be tough 

Or he would die, he fares so rough; 

No child could stand the wear and tear 

Of such a hard unwelcome fare; 

His fare is hartf, we must admit, 

But he is suited well for it, 

And in the snow up to his knees 

He thrives where other birds would freeze. 

The snow-bird's lot we have portrayed 

A true delineation made, 

Of how he Hves and how he fares 

And how he suffers unawares. 

Now, child of earth we'd ask of thee 

In candor which thou'dst rather be, 

A snow-bird gay, so blithe of heart, 

Or be exactly what thou art, 

And now methinks I hear you say 

"I troii/d not he a snow-bird gay, 

If I could just as well as not. 

So very hard must be his lot." 



What's In a Name, 



WHAT-S IN A NAME. 



Most vividly do I remember 

The day that I married a Crow, 

It was in the month of December 
A dozen or more years ago. 

No feathers had she to adorn her 
Of these she had really no use, 

r»ut stuck in her hat near one corner, 
Was one that was plucked from a goose, 

'Twas laughable quite to behold her 
She made such a comical show, 

The plume of a goose as I told her 
Was ne'er before seen on a Crow. 

She had to admit that 'twas funny, 

That strange things would sometimes 
occur, 

And asked me to call her my honey 
And live in the future for her. 



^6 What's ftf (I JVrrine, 

To such a request 1 consented 
Nor was it a hard thing to do, 

Since then I've been very contented 
And so has my darhng pet, too. 

Of course she is generally near me 
But never have yet heard her croak, 

And when I am sad she will cheer trie 
With sentiments tenderly spokp. 

We live and take comfort together 

As through the world's labyrinth we 
wind, 

It matters not what is the weather 
She's pleasant and cheerful and kind. 

And so I have never regretted 
That step which I took years ago. 

Although at the time somewhat fretted 
To think I had married a Crow. 



Life. 97 



LIFE, 



Strange it is ahd somewhat queer 
vSome should say and be sincere, 
Life is but a fitful dream 
And things are not what they seem, 

"Life is rea/," that is plain 
To a mind that's not insane, 
And is likewise '"earnest too 
Jutiging from the work we do. 

'Tis o'ertasked with urgent toil 
Cultivating mind or soil, 
Cutting diamond, stone, or wood, 
All for one another's good. 

Life of death is the reverse, 
And a blessing or a curse 
It is very sure to be. 
Yet a stern reality. 

'Tis a blessing when we know 
That our conduct here below, 
Is exactly what it should 
Have been, to be reckoned good. 



98 Life. 

Passing through a world Hke this 
If we chance to go amiss, 
Then existance is a curse 
Or of pleasure the reverse. 



'Tis mixed up with joy and grief, 
Let it be however brief, 
For the man while yet a boy 
Had his grief as well as joy. 

True it is that troubles fall 
To the lot of each and all, 
"Something always is to pay" 
As we journey on our way. 

Life is subject oft to ills, 

Sickness comes and sometimes kills, 

'Tis not easy to avoid 

Being sometimes thus annoyed. 

Pain and misery and woe 
Frequently will come and go, 
Each is necessary sure 
Though not pleasant to endure. 



Life — Death. 9^ 



But we think upon the whole 
That the grave is not its goal, 
That beyond there is a sphere 
Brighter still than this one here. 



e^ 



DEATH. 

Death is abroad in all the land, 
He's manifest on every hand, 
We see him here as well as there, 
In fact behold him everywhere. 
The high, the low, the rich, the poor 
Must all, alas, his pangs endure. 
No one escapes however great, 
For death will enter at his gate 
And take him from his home away 
Despite his wishes for to stay. 
No power on earth can stay his hand 
When earnest once in his demand; 
We little know what hour he may 
Appear to one of us and say; 
"I have a summons here for thee. 
Arise and come along with me." 
The old he takes as on they go 



too t)ef(fh. 

With tottering steps, infirm and slow, 
The young, or those of tender age. 
Alike are victims of his rage. 
He'll make us each, you may depend 
A visit that will mark our end. 
That is to say our sojourn here, 
On what is called the mundane sphere. 
There's some of us, we must admit, 
Would not be pleased to w^elcome it. 
EVn in the thought there's something thar 
The most of us would shudder at, 
And so we say that thousands would 
Avoid the visit if they could. 
Not even one among us all 
Will be exempt from nature's call. 
Vet, after all how very strange, 
That death should only be a change, 
A change that comes upon us here 
•And one we have no need to fear. 
For just as sure as there's a sun 
That disappears when day is done 
To rise again o'er land and wave 
There is a life beyond the grave. 



To fhv 0/>/»res.se(I of the Of her Ltnnfs. lOi 

TO THE OPPRESSED OF THE 
OTHER LANDS. 

For years you have been flocking — ? 

Been flocking to our shores, 
And still we hear you knocking 

For entrance at Qur doors, 
Whtn forced by vile oppression 

To leave your country dear, 
'Tis surely no transgression 

To come and settle here. 

While there is room for others 

To come here and abide, 
We'll hail you as our brothers 

And welcome you beside, 
With Welcomes the most hearty 

While landing on our shores. 
Where genius like an eagle 

In triumph proudly soars. 

By casting a reflection 

Back on our ancestors, 
We trace a close connection 

Between your blood and ours; 
For we are sons and daughters 

Of men that once did roam, 



7V> I he Of>/)res,sc(f of fjic OfJicr Jjnuh 

Who crossed the ra<^ing^ waters 
To set up here a home. 

The tide of immis^ration, 

It has been truly said, 
Can ne'er unbind our nation 

But strengthen it instead. 
For 'neath our spangled banner 

Not many aliens dwell, 
But in some shape or manner. 

Can serve the country well. 

This is the land of learning — 

Of science and the arts. 
Where thousands are sojourning 

With true and noble hearts; 
It is the land of freedom 

Not quite a paradise, 
O no, 'tis not an Eden 

And yet we think it nice. 

Why not come here and settle 

So long as there is room. 
And show us by your mettle 

Oppression's not your doom; 
The country is extensive 

In price there's nothing steep, 
E'en land is not expensive 

But very, very cheap. 



An Address to America. 103 



AN ADDRESS TO AMERICA, 

The following poem was written during the 
darkest hour of the rebellion, 

America, America, 

Allow our lips to part, 
And we will speak a friendly word 

Unto thy bleeding heart, 
For well we know the agony 

And wails of deep despair, 
And sighs and groans and anguish toq, 

That now abideth there. 



America, America, 

Thou wast a happy land 
When all thy children North and South, 

Composed a single band, 
O then was life a blessing sweet 

To people great and small, 
For love and joy and peace so cairn 

Were meted out to all. 



I04 An Athh'css to Americd. 

America, America, 

Thou wast a brilliant star 
And didst diffuse thy light abroad, 

Until it reached afar; 
And what was the result, we ask, 

Of all this licrht of thine, 
Ltt foreiorn powers the answer give 

For we ourselves decline. 



America, America, 

Tliy light, alas! has flown 
And when it vvfill return again 

Is certainly unknown; 
Perhaps long years will con")e and go 

And go and come again, 
Before thy light, as o ice of yore, 

Wdl reach beyond the mair^. 

America, America, 

O, when will carnage cease 
Within thy realm and all again 

Be comfort, joy and peace? 
Will ever man to brother man 

Be just in every cause, 
And when invested with the pcnvpr 

Make equitable laws? 



An Address to America — rllard to Do. \o- 

America, America, 

We still have hope for thee 
Ft»r in our inmost soul we feel 

That thou wilt soon be free, 
Yt^s, free indeed from deadly strife. 

And also slavery's chains, 
Which long have bound poor Africa's song 

Within thv broad domains. 



HARD TO DO. 

Every man, arjd won-jan too, 

Has a rriission to fqlfill. 
Which is somewhat hard to dq 

When performed against the will. 



1 will think your head is "level" 
When you say there is no deyil. 



io6 The lilijlnln. 



THE BUFFALO, 

The bullalo, that noble brute, 

Of him but few remain, 
By tens of thousands once he roamed 

Upon our Western phiin. 

'Tis evident that he is doomed, 

For fast he disappears. 
And will no doubt become extinct 

Within a few short years. 

H's bones lie scattered here and there, 

Throughout a vast extent. 
And with the soil undoubtedly 

Are destined to be blent. 

The slaughter, indiscriminate. 
That on him has been made. 

Must needs subdue a fiercer beast 
And lay him in the shade. 

And who is there responsible 
For what we should detest, 

Is it the red man or the white, 
On which the blame should vest ? 



The Buffalo— The Ile<h))an. 107 

Let echo answer as it may, 

'Twill tell the truth no doubt, 
For in a case so very plain 

Important facts will out. 



THE REDMAN, 

Ah, where is the native that dwelt here of yore ! 
He's vanished before us to dwell here no more, 
His lands have passed into the hands of the whites, 
Who coolly deprived him of all of his rights. 

As the white man advances he flees in dismay. 
Like the trees of the forest he passes away. 
O'er the graves of his fathers he drops not a tear. 
Although to his heart their memory dear. 

No longer the smoke from the valley ascends 
To note the wild home of the hunter and friends. 
The ashes grevv cold on his natural hearth 
And a long time ago washed away in the earth. 

The warwhoop is silent, the native has fled 

To the far distant West, or the hills of the dead, 



io8 'The Redinan. 

The nerve and the steel of the white man, they say. 
Were the forces employed that hith swept him away. 

These regions so lovely will know him no more, 
With different races they're all peopled o'er. 
How changed is the scene, the contrast how great. 
From what it was once in its barbarous state. 

Magnificent homes embellished in white. 
That everywhere greet with pleasure the sight, 
The cities and towns of a different nation 
Denote the advances of civilization. 

The whistle so shrill of the old iron horse, 
The telegraph, too, invented by Morse, 
i\s well as the grand electrical light. 
All indicate that he has taken his flight. 

That athletic form that wended its way 
Through forests so dense in quest of his prey, 
Has now disappeared, and a nobler race, 
Of a different type, has taken his place. 

'Tis plain to be seen that his downfall is great, 
Yet we ought not to mourn o'er his tragical fate. 
For it must be apparent to child or adult 
That grand and important has been the result. 



The Old 0(1 A- Tree. 109 



THE OLD OAK TREE. 

The old oak tree, aye there it stands, 

It was not reared by human hands, 

But formed and grew until, you see, 

It has become a mighty tree. 

At first it was an acorn small 

Not larger than a tiny ball, 

And hung upon a tree-top high, 

Not very far beneath the sky. 

It was exposed to every breeze 

That swayed the branches of the trees, 

Until it could no longer stay. 

And so it lost its hold one day 

And tumbled to the ground below 

Where it was buried deep in snow. 

To be protected from the cold 

It settled down into the mold, 

And there remained until the sun 

Made snow and ice and sap to run ; 

When from its lethargy it woke, 

'Twas destined then to be an oak. 

The truth is this, though strange to tell. 

The warmth and moisture made it swell 

Until at length its shell was broke 



no The Old Oak Tree. 

When it became a living oak. 

To grow two leaves did now begin, 

And lonely quite they must have been, 

Until another tiny pair 

Had joined the ones already there. 

Another pair was added then, 

And soon they numbered eight or ten, 

A dozen then, and on and on 

The work did go, and then anon. 

The number swelled, and now behold 

They have increased a thousand fold. 

And by its foliage a shade 

The most delightful oft is made. 

It is a fact we can't deny, 

Nor can we tell the reason why — ■ 

Its trunk shot upward toward the skies. 

Increasing every year in size, 

'Twould puzzle even the most learned, 

Or anybody else concerned. 

To tell us why an acorn small 

should make a tree so grand and tall ; 

Yet there it stands, incased in bark, 

A mystery so deep, so dark. 

That it can never, never be 

Unraveled while it is a tree. 



A Warning — A Blessituj in Disguise, iii 



A WARNING. 

She's pretty as a pink, 

A daffodil or daisy. 
But the people seem to think 

She's a lay-a-bed and lazy. 
Young men I'm not in fun, 

But write ) ou as a warning, 
The girl to shun is one 

That snoozes in the morning. 



A BLESSING IN DISGUISE. 

To-day is dark and gloomy, 

The sky is overcast. 
And from the vault above us 

The snow is falling fast. 

'Tis caught while on its passage 
To earth from yonder skies, 



112 A l^lesshg in D!f<(pn's^. 

By winds that hurl it fiercely 
Into our face and eyes. 

There is an ancient proverb. 

Of interest to the poor, 
That snov\ a fertilizer, 

Is the poor man's manure. 

Then snoic must be a blessing, 
A blessing in disguise, 

So let it fall upon us 

From out the dismal skies. 



For 'tis not very often 
A blessing for the poor. 

Descends from heaven upon them 
In form of a manure. 



Oh, no ; v^e would not stop it. 
We would not if we could, 

But it is my opinion 

We could not if we would. 



A True Hero. 1 1 -^ 

A TRUE HERO. 

The hero of my humble verse 

I'll tell you all about, 
He is a man that would not curse 

Though troubled with the gout. 

He is a gentleman, "you bet," 

If ever there was one. 
Nor was he ever known to fret 

O'er matters left undone. 

He is the man to win our praise 

And admiration too. 
The debts he owes he always pays 

Whenever they are due. 

A neighbor that is kind and good 

Although he may be poor, 
He'd help that neighbor if he could, 

He'd do so, I am sure. 

When e'er he talks he tells the truth, 

On this you may depend, 
Although he has emerged from youth 

He ne'er forgets a friend. 

Day after day he holds the plow, 
From labor ne'er retreats; 



I I j. A True JI cro. 

And thus he earns by sweat of brow, 
The bread he daily eats. 

lie drinks l)ut very httle beer, 
l^ut sometimes treats his friends ; 

His own canoe he tries to steer 
As through the world he wends. 

lie is a man of noble mien 

Antl six feet high at least, 
Erect his form, his eye is keen, 

He fears not man or beast. 

Upon the whole he is a man 

By nature well endowed, 
And so, of course, you never can 

Mistake him in a crowd, 

VouVl know him by that greeting warm 

He hj<s for one and all. 
As well as by that noble form 

So stately and so tall. 

His name I will not mention here, 
Not ktiowing how, heVl feel. 

Exceptions he might take I fear. 
Should I his name reveal. 



Sh)rk Feeding. 



STOCK FEEDING. 

If you would have your stock outshine 
Your luighhor's o'er the way, 

By being larg-e and fat and fine, 
Take heed to wliat I say. 

In deahng out your ^ccd to stock 
Without first being cooked, 

A losing game it is, at least, 
To me it long has looked. 

But still the practice doth prevail, 
'Tis strange but still "tis true. 

All 1 suppose for want of proof 
Upon the point in view. 

Now, "to the wise one word's enough," 

An adage old, 'tis said, 
Mark well for on two- thirds the feed 

Your stock may all be ^q(\. 

To do the thing V\\ tell you how, 

'Tis easy quite and plain, 
Just take a peep in Hardware Row 

A steamer there obtain. 



ii6 Stock Feeding — Fate. 

And Prindle's is by far the best 

Of any yet invented, 
'Twill do the work, and really is 

Just what 'tis represented. 

When you with one have been supplied 
Just place it near your well, 

And by its use you soon will find 
That on your stock 'twill tell. 

Upon the subject do but read 
And then Fd have you talk. 

When doubtless you will all decide 
To cook your feed for stock. 



FATE, 

My/r//e has got the mastery 
Of me, 1 just begin to see. 

But ere it is too late, too late, 
I'll be the master of my fate. 



The Old Jfairrs f^onfessioiu 1 17 



THE OLD MAID'S CONFESSION. 

Forty years ago to-day 

I was young and blithe and gay, 

And was what the world would call 

Beautiful and fair withal. 

The result was, heaven knows, 

I had lots and lots of beaux. 

Some of them were men of worth, 

Some could boast of noble birth, 

Others were the kind of men, 

Who with skill could wield the pen; 

Some respectable but poor. 

With life's trials to endure, 

Some again were dudes, of course, 

Wholly destitute of force. 

But I flirted with them all 

At the theater and ball. 

Then I was a reigning belle 

And enjoyed it very well, 

I was, everywhere I went. 

Flattered to my heart's content. 

But a vacant place to fill 

Was there in my bosorn still. 

One that flattery could not 



ti8 The Old MdiiVs Coiifessiori. 

Fill exactly to a dot. 

There was one thing that I •craved, 

And would willingly have braved 

Every obstacle could I 

Have but gained it by and by. 

'Twas the love of some brave youth 

Who could bay and tell the truth, 

"With a heart that is sincere 

I devoutly love you, dear." 

Love was what my soul required. 

What my longing heart desired, 

What it really seemed to me 

Was a pure necessity. 

But that youth I never met. 

So I failed that love to get. 

And I am a maid to-day, 

Wrinkled, old, and somewhat gray, 

Destitute of all that could 

Make me happy, or that would, 

Cheer me up or make me glad, 

When I'm sorrowful and sad. 

Not a child in nature's realms — 

E'en the thought my heart o'erwhelms 

With a grief I can't o'erthrow, 

'Tis so near akin to woe. 

But perhaps to blame I was, 

Flirting, doubtless is the cause; 



The Ohl M(tl(Vs Confession — Avfoj/raph. 119 

Very few would want a wife 

That bad flirted all her life. 

Growing older day by day, 

I am speeding on my way 

With no partner by my side 

To protect me or to guide. 

Like a comet in the sky 

Lonely and forlorn am I. 

Thus it is I'm being hurled 

Through this ever-changing world; 

But there soon will be an end 

To my journey. Fair young friend, 

So let my experience be 

A good lesson unto thee. 



AUTOGRAPH. 

The footprints on the ocean's strand 

May disappear in haste. 
But from my heart, thy name can not 

So quickly be erased. 



r^o Old Abe Lincoln . 



OLD ABE LINCOLN. 

The following lines, purporting to be addressed 
to Abraham Lincoln, were written in October, 1S641 
ju«^t bef»>re his second election to the Presidency : 

Old Abe Lincoln, great thou art — 
Here's our hand as well as heart, 
No exertions will we spare 
To retain thee in that chair. 
For we know that thou art true 
To the red, the white, and blue. 

Old Abe Lincoln thou hast won 
Laurels since this war begun. 
Laurels that will e'er be thine 
Till the latest flight of time. 
For we know no other now 
That has truer been than thou. 

Old Abe Lincoln, once again 
We desire to see thee reign 
Not as king or emperor, 
'Tis not this we want you for, 
But to guide the ship of state 
Safely with its crushing weight. 



Old Abe Lincoln — Autograph. 12 1 

Old Abe Lincoln, heaven knows, 
In our midst are bitter foes, 
Who will do all in their power 
To defeat thee in that hour 
When our country needs thee most 
To defeat the rebel host. 

Old Abe Lincoln, thus to save 

This old Union from its grave. 

We will make thee Chief once more. 

Easier than we did before, — 

Do it in a manner fine 

For our country's friends are thine. 

AUTOGRAPH. 

I write not for money, 

I write not for fame. 
But for no other purpose 

Than to sign here my name. 



122 Mil (ill'}. 



MY GIRL. 



If you'll take a stroll with me 
To yon cottage by the sea, 
I will introduce you there 
To a maiden that is fair; 
One in whom I long have been 
Deeply interested in. 
Wavy is her golden hair 
Dangling o'er her shoulders bare, 
Falling to the waist beneath. 
Lovely as a flowery wreath. 
"Tis in fact a head of hair 
That can not but well compare 
With the finest in the land, 
I would have you understand. 
She is noble and refined, 
True, aff'ectionate and kind, 
Gentle as the zephyrs are 
That go floating here and there. 
These are attributes that she 
Merits in a high degree. 
Now, a«bout her form a word. 
Knowing well 1 have not erred 
When I say it is complete 



Jfii Girl. 

From the shoulders to the feet; 
Matchless as the one that Eve 
In the Garden did receive; 
Not too plump, nor yet too slim, 
Ankles delicate and trim. 
Not too short nor yet too tall, 
Not too large nor yet too small. 
With a foot that calls for fours. 
Just the size that man adores. 
Thus her form I have portrayed 
And when properly arrayed 
In a garb that fits her neat 
I can not but call her sw^eet. 
Next her features, I believe, 
Some attention should receive, 
For if you indeed were blind 
In them you would beauty find. 
Cheeks with tints just like a rose, 
Borrowed from it I suppose, 
Brow as delicate and fair 
As the waterlilies are. 
'Neath her lashes, eyes of blue, 
Glisten like the morning dew. 
Lips of coral, teeth of pearl, 
This describes in full my girl. 



134 



Lifes Udtfle. 



LIFERS BATTLE. 

'When a man does get married 

His pleasures are small, 
He's just like a dog 

With no tail at all." 
For something is lacking, 

He hardly knows what, 
That makes him dissatisfied 

Quite with his lot. 

And what there is lacking 

Is couraffe to win 
The battle of life 

That now must begin; 
'Twill tax ((U his strength 

And energy too, 
If ever he wriggles 

And twists his way through. 



What is Home With out a Mofherr 12 c; 



^^WHAT IS HOME WITHOUT A MOTHER?'' 

"What is home without a mother?" 

Let a httle orphan tell, 
For he knows there is no other 

Who can fill the place so well. 

When she was the one to sicken 

And to leave us did prepare, 
Then it was my heart was stricken 

With a grief it could not bear. 

Mother died and went to heaven 

There to dwell forevermore. 
That was when I was but seven. 

Little sister only four. 

When she died we were the only — 

Only household pets she had, 
Dying then she left us lonely 

Yes, and very, very sad. 

What can make one feel like crying 
More than from a friend to part.^ 

What is there that is more trying 
To a truly loving heart? 



26 '•iy//<if is lloiiir nUhnnl n Mollirr 

Oh, dear me I how I have missed her 
vSince that dark and dismal day, 

When myself and little sister 
Saw our mother pass away. 

Father married soon another, 
In accordance with the rule, 

L^ut we could not call her mother 
When she treated us so cool. 



Home to us has no attraction, 
Not a single word of cheer, 

When she says in every action 
That we have no business here. 



Home is now of course a dreary 
And unwelcome place to me, 

Nothing now to make it cheery, 
Cheery as it used to be. 



Home we say without a mother 
Is much like a prison cell. 

If one place is like some other. 
This describes it very well. 



Kates liiqfn'rt/. 127 



KATE'S INQUIRY, 

"What do we live for anyhow?"' 
With emphasis you asU, 

To answer such a question, Kate, 
WouUl be no easv task. 



Yet I will try to answer it 

In my peculiar way, 
But if not satisfactory 

Excuse me then, I pray. 

From what you say, you seem to think 

That people live in vain, 
That life is but an empty dream, 

Disturbed by grief and pain. 

To live we have a great desire. 
And yet we know not why, 

So one thing that we live for is 
This wish to gratify. 

We live to help the ones we love. 
And what a pleasure, too. 



1 28 Knfe's frtf/n/'ri/. 

Love is the stimulus we need 
To. make us dare and do. 

Affection moves this world of ours, 

As well as that above, 
And so we draw the inference 

We also live to love. 

Another thing we live for is, 

We can not help it well, 
And so, of course, we must expect 

Somewhere in space to dwell. 

To cultivate our physical 
As well as mental powers 

Is one thing more we live for, Kate, 
In this bright world of ours. 

Another thing we live for is 
Our kindred and our friends, 

They could not do without us well. 
On them our fate depends. 

Much more have we to live for, Kate, 
Besides what's mentioned here. 



Kutea 1)1(111 try — ^'^'^ Rich and Poor Coiit) astcd . 129 

And yet you seem to think that we 
Have naught to Hve for, dear. 

We have enough to hve for, Kate, 

The hosts of heaven know, 
So let us do our duty weh 

While through this world we go. 

Now, what loe most should live for is, 

To try, and try again. 
To do the very best we can, 

And we'll not live in vain. 



J' 



THE RICH and POOR CONTRASTED 

He that's rich in this world's treasure 
May carouse and have his pleasure, 
He may be but one in twenty 
Fortune has endowed with plenty; 
But the man that's poor and needy. 
Clad in garments somewhat seedy, 
Must encounter tribulations, 
Trials, hardships, and privations. 



I-io Manx Dcsh'in/. ir/ic/ is Tl 



MAN'S DESTINY, WHAT IS IT? 

Of course we all would like to know 
Our destiny and where we'll go. 
When we are done with earth and all 
Pertaining to this heavenly ball 

Some claim we'll go direct to God 
While others think, beneath the sod, 
And some are bold enough to say 
We'll go to hell, without delay. 

Now let us for a moment see 
How inconsistent some can be, 
To claim God is not here, but there. 
And at the same time everyw^iere. 

Now if to meet him we must go 
He cannot well be here you know, 
And if he is not here, but there, 
He cannot well be everywhere. 



If neath the sod we gravitate 
And there in an unconscious state. 



3fans Best in !i. What is Tff—Bahn. 131 

Eternally we do remain. 

Then man of course was made in vain. 

And worse by far if hell should be, 
With all its ills, his destiny, 
'Twere better then he'd ne'er been born 
Than to exist and be forlorn. 

The facts are these, and nothing can 
Be inconsistent with the plan, 
That we shall roam from place to place 
Throughout illimitable space. 

Some truths we'll glean wher'er we go 
Facts that before we did not know, 
And thus go on to rise and shine 
Till we become as gods divine. 



BABY. 

Whenever baby makes his call 
A precious boon is he to all, 
"A bursting bud" he's said to be 
That blooms on life's prolific tree- 



1^2 n<ti>ii 

"A padlock on the chain of love," 

He has been called, "My precious dove," 

Another name that fits him well 

And is not difficult to spell, 

"A human flower untouched by care," 

So sweet, so delicate and fair — 

"A tiny feather from the wing 

Of love," that some forebodings bring. 

"A little craft of innocense," 

But rigged and run with some expense — 

The mothers love, the father's joy, 

Whether it be a girl or boy. 

A stranger is he at the best. 

But usually a welcome guest; 

Where he becomes a household pet, 

A place he fills without regret — 

"A native of all countries," who 

Can speak no tongue, but only coo; 

Of course a Laplander is he, 

In Lapland then he loves to be. 

Where, in that most congenial clime 

He spends a portion of his time. 

Within or out of nurse's lap 

He is an interesting chap; 

And should he die or go to Rome, 

O, how you'd miss him from your home! 



The Shjlen Ilem^f. 133 



THE STOLEN HEART, 

The following lines are represented as being ad- 
dressed by a young man to his sweetheart on the eve 
of his departure for Italy. 

Listen to me, Lizzie Long. 
Am I right or am I wrong? 
In accusing you, my dear, 
Of a deed so very queer, 
By some craft of yours or art, 
You have stole away my heart, 
Took it from me unawares 
But I guess nobody cares. 
So you see 'tis my belief 
That you are a little thief. 
Let me tell you what it is, 
I will not condemn you, Liz, 
But instead of doing this 
I will deal you out a kiss, 
In a humor somewhat grave 
Rather than to rant and rave, 
Then I'll go to Italy, dear. 
Where the skies are ever clear, 



134 The Sfolcit Heart, 

Where the sun in splendor shines 

Down upon the Apennines, 

Shedding forth a flood of hght 

Soft, effulgent, clear, and bright. 

There the little honeybee 

Wings his way so merrily 

O'er the fields, from flower to flower, 

Guided by an unseen power, 

There the Alps majestic stand. 

Bold and lofty, august, grand. 

Looking down with rugged face 

On the objects at their base. 

I can love you while I roam 

Just as well as here at home. 

And when miles and miles away 

I can think of you and say, 

You'r my darling and my dove, 

And the only one I love. 

When I've rambled till I'm tired 

I will then return inspired 

With a stronger love than ever. 

For my darling, cute and clever. 



Xatiires Mysteries. 135 



NATURE'S MYSTERIES. 

On our journey from the womb 

To the dark and silent tomb, 

Mysteries of deep concern 

Puzzle us at every turn, 

Till we often get perplexed, 

Quite bewildered too, and vexed — 

Let me here some questions ask, 

But to answer, what a task! 

How about the planet Mars 

Up among the shining stars, 

Tell me stranger, if you can, 

Is it the abode of man? 

Is it sir, a garden spot 

For intelligence, or not? 

And in case 'tis really so 

Tell us what the Marites know. 

Are the}^ more advanced than we 

Or behind a century? 

Do they toil for daily bread, 

Or are they on manna fed? 

Is there sorrow there and mirth. 

Just the same as on the earth? 

Are there mountains thjere and vales, 



•^6 y((fitrr's M list cries. 

Oceans that are swept by gales? 

Rivers broad and deep and dark, 

Big enough to float an ark? 

Is there on that distant sphere 

Anything Hke what is here? 

Tell me now about that star. 

We behold away so far, 

Out beyond, the planet Mars, 

Right among the twinkling stars, 

Is it but another sun 

Doing as old Sol has done, 

Through all ages that are past 

Lighting up a system vast? 

These are things we'd like to know 

As we on our journey go, 

But the answer that we get 

Is "I am not certain yet 

As to how these matters are 

For I'm not advanced that far." 

Evidently it is true 

These are but a very few 

Of the hidden things profound 

That in nature's realms abound; 

So it is no wonder then 

That we get bewildered when, 

We attempt to take a peep 

Into mysteries so deep. 



Onlji Jmf the Other ^^ff/hf. 137 



ONLY JUST THE OTHER NIGHT. 

If the garden gate could talk 

It would have a tale to tell 
That would very likely suit 

Curious people passing well, 
It could tell how Johnny Brown 

And his sweetheart, Katie Wiight 
Hung upon it long and late. 

Only just the other night. 

How I would like to have been 

That old garden gate a while, 
To have listened to the chat 

That their moments did beguile; 
Interesting must have been 

What was said to Katie Wright 
By her lover Johnny Brown, 

Only just the other night. 

But the garden gate will keep 
As a secret what they said. 

To each other then and there 
Till old Father Time is dead, 



13S Oiilji Jusf fhc other Xi;//t/. — J liiddlc. 

Chatting was not all they did 
By the moonbeam's feeble light 

When their lips in contact came 
Only just the other night. 

Kissing, doubtless, was a part 

Of the program by the gate 
Well performed by Johnny Brown 

And his pretty sweetheart, Kate. 
True it is we've only guessed, 

But we think we've guessed aright, 
How they chatted, hugged, and kissed. 

Only just the other night. 



A RIDDLE, 

While I'm living I need none. 
After I am dead but one. 
Only one, and that i« all 
Whether I am large or small. 



The Female Crusoe. 139 



THE FEMALE CRUSOE, 

The following poem was suggested to the mind 
of the author by reading an article published in the 
Globe- Democrat in the fall of i88o. It was concern- 
ing a small tribe of Indians that years before had been 
colonized by the Jesuits of California on one of the 
Santa Barbara Islands, and after remaining many 
years on the Island it was decided to remove them to 
the main land, and accordingly a vessel was sent from 
Santa Barbara for that purpose. As the ship ap- 
proached and anchored near the island all was bustle 
and confusion, for they understood its mission. Soon 
a boat pushed off towards the island to take them on 
board the vessel. After the Indians were all aboard the 
boat and they were ready to return to the vessel the 
signal was given and she shoved off. The boat had 
not proceeded far before a young Indian woman miss- 
ed her babe, she supposed that one of the sailors had 
taken the child and deposited it m the boat previous 
to her occupation of it, and did not discover her mis- 
take until the boat had gotten some distance from 
shore. She requested them to return for her child, 



I ^.O 77/r FciiKllr ('riisor. 

but they refused on account of a storm that had jus^ 
set in, so she jumped overboard and they supposed she 
was drowned. They reached the ship, however, in 
safety, and all went on board when the good ship 
weighed anchor and was soon sailing in the direction 
of Santa Barbara which place she reached in due 
time. 

About eighteen years after the events we have 
just mentioned had transpired, a vessel chanced to 
land at this island, and what was their astonishment to 
find it inhabited by a solitary woman, who was capti- 
vated and taken on board when it was ascertained 
that she was the identical person who so many 
years before made her escape from the boat bv plung- 
ing into the ocean to save her child. Her story was 
soon learned. She was taken to California, but died 
in a short time after being rescued from her solitary 
abode. Her life upon the island and the particulars 
concerning her lost child was learned from her own 
lips and is given in the poem. 

This is said to be a true story and is certainly a 
sad one. 

Alone I dwell on this desolate isle 
From kindred away 1 am many a mile, 
And just how it happened that I am here 
Shall be related in language clear. 



TJie FeiiKile Crusoe. 

I once belonged to an Indian band 

That had an abode on this island strand, 

But as it happened a ship one day 

From Santa Barbara sailed this way, 

And anchored herself not far from shore. 

And then proceeded at once to lower 

With ropes and pulleys a good-sized boat 

Which soon they managed to get afloat, 

And when the boat was properly manned 

No time was lost in making the land, 

Their object was as we understood, 

To take us aboard if they possibly could. 

To leave the island we did prepare 

To stay here longer we did not care, 

W' ith one accord then we hastened aboard 

In the face of a rain that dismally poured, 

For just at that time a storm was at hand 

That did in a measure confuse our band, 

And now as we were about to roam 

We bid an adieu to our island home, 

The boat then shoved from off the strand 

And when a furlong or two from land. 

My baby, alas! just then I missed. 

The child I had so frequently kissed, 

1 had supposed the little wee thing 

Was taken beneath a sailor's wing, 

And gently placed in the craft before 



141 



I/|.2 77/ r Fc))i<i}C (^riisof. 

It had been shoved from off the shore. 
To my dismay 'twas a sad mistake 
For my child — oh dear, how my heart did ache! 
I pondered but a moment or two 
Ere I decided just what to do 
I made what I call a desperate plunge 
And swam to the shore like a muskallonge, 
Contending of course with wind and wave 
For no other purpose but baby to save, 
While struggling in the turbulent deep, 
I thought alas, that my final leap 
Had just been made, for often my breath 
Would seem for a moment lost in death. 
The shore at length was reached and the spot 
Where my child was left, but I found him not. 
Of course I knew then some merciless beast 
Had sated himself with a terrible feast. 
My heart grew faint from this very cause 
And I for a while insensible was, 
But when I came to my senses again, 
I thought of my lonely condition then, 
I thought of my friends on the rolling deep 
And the thought was enough to make one weep. 
I bowed my head and thought with a sigh 
Of the months and years that had gone by. 
How very happy I might have been 
Surrounded by those I claimed as kin, 



The Female Crusoe. 143 

Whose faces again I would never see 

While on this side of eternity. 

I thought of the waves that rolled between 

Myself and the lands I had never seen, 

And wished for the wings of a dove, that I 

Might rise in the atmosphere and fly, 

I also thought of my sad, sad fate, 

And I felt lonely and desolate, 

I would of necessity henceforth be 

Inclosed as I was by the deep blue sea, 

I felt that I never again would behold 

A being shaped in humanity's mold, 

It was hard, very hard, to become reconciled 

To my fate, and the loss of my dear little child, 

So I burst mto tears and I sobbed aloud 

Till the tears flowed down like rain from a cloud. 

Out of humanity's reach was I 

Here for to linger until I die, 

Never to hear the music of speech. 

But in its stead the terrible screech 

The little owl makes in the dead of night 

But seldom, if ever, in broad day light. 

I felt I was doomed to hear the wolf howl 

As well as to barken to said little owl. 

To listen to see birds from day unto day 

And not understand a word that they say, 

I felt that the beast and the birds were to be 



44 



The Female Crusoe 

From that time forward my sole company. 
Nor was I mistaken for quite soon they came, 
About me appearing most shockingly tame 
I feed them and pet them and teach them to 

know 
That I am their companion instead of their foe. 
When I to my fate had become reconciled 
A spot I selected, sequestered and wild, 
Where I built me a hut out of tamarack poles 
And near, very near, where the blue ocean rolls. 
This hut is my palace, the isle my domain 
O'er the fowl and the brute supremely I reign, 
I'm queen of the island but dwell here alone 
So all my possessions are strictly my own; 
But a solitude deep, and one I am sure 
That would be quite hard for some to endure, 
I have to encounter from day unto day 
Since fate has decided that here I shall stay. 



To the Ocean. 14c 

TO THE OCEAN, 

"Roll on, thou dark blue ocean, roll!" 
O'er thee has man but slight control, 
Thy depths we cannot fathom well, 
How deep thou art no tongue can tell. 

The surging of thy billows deep 
Awakes the mariner from his sleep, 
Disturbs the slumbers of the dead 
That rests upon thy gravelly bed. 

Thou art the vast but solemn grave 
Of many a hero bold and brave. 
The great receptacle of all 
The treasure lost since Adam's fall. 

Thy ceaseless ebbing, ceaseless flow, 
Doth most distinguish thee, although 
An attribute we frankly own 
Belonging unto thee alone. 

No drinker hard can drink thee up, 
Nor any dipper, dish or cup 
Is large enough to dip thee dry, 
Except the dipper in the sky, 



146 What rd Tell Her. 

WHAT PD TELL HER. 

''I will tell you of a maiden — 

Of a maiden I have seen," 
Who will vie in form and feature 

With earth's most bewitching queen, 
Oft I have resolved to court her 

And the story to her tell 
Of my heart's sincere devotion. 

For I love the maiden well. 

But ni}' courage ever fails me — 

Ever fails me in that hour 
Designated to approach her 

And submit to woman's power, 
Would that Iwere so audacious 

As to meet my love to-day, 
And in words of fond emotion 

Tell her all I have to say. 

I would tell her how I love her, 

How I loved her years ago 
When our hearts were young and tender, 

Purer than the driven snow. 
How that love has grown still stronger 

As the years have onward rolled, 
Till it now so fires my bosom 

That it never can grow cold. 



What ra Tell Her. 147 

I would tell her of my happy — 

Of my happy dreams at night, 
When so oft she lingers near me 

Lovely as an angel bright, 
How it saddens me on waking 

Finding I had only dreamed. 
And that all was a delusion. 

Things not being what they seemed, 

I would tell her how my anxious — 

How my anxious heart will beat 
For her safety, on occasions 

When I'm far from her retreat, 
How I in my lovely wanders 

Over prairie, through the wood, 
Feel the force of that old adage, 

"To be single is not good." 

I would tell her how this aching — 

How this aching heart of mine 
Can be made no more to languish, 

Nor in melancholy pine. 
How her presence e'er disperses 

From my mind that gloom away, 
As a ray of sunshine changes 

Blackest darkness into day. 



14S What Fd Tell Her. 

I would tell her of my mansion — 

Of my mansion in the West, 
How it stands without a mistress 

For the spiders to infest, 
Tell her of the joy 'twould give me 

To make that her future home, 
Then no more o'er earth's broad surface 

Would I ever wish to roam. 

Now I'd take this maiden gently — 

Take her gently by the hand 
And in language quite peculiar, 

A»^k her if she would be "manned," 
Then I'd wait in breathless silence 

For the answer she would sigh. 
Knowing well my fate depended 

On the maiden's firm reply. 

But my courage ever fails me — 

Ever fails me in that hour, 
Designated to approach her 

And submit to woman's power; 
So I e'er must be contented 

To live on without a wife, 
And not know the joy, the comfort, 

Realized in wedded Hfe, 



The Elecfrir Light. 149 



THE ELECTRIC LIGHT. 

Like orbs of burnished silver 

Is the electric light, 
It shines with such effulgence, 

So radiant and bright; 
More brilliant far than gaslight, 

As everybody knows; 
We only can conjecture 

The source from which it flows: 
Not fully comprehended. 

Yet man has learned enough 
To know 'twas like a diamond — 

A diamond in the rough; 
By closest application, 

By minds not quite divine, 
The rough was penetrated 

And light was made to shine — 
A light that is soon destined 

To supercede them all 
In lighting up the the parlor, 

The dining-room and hall; 
A thousand orbs most brilliant 

Illuminate the night, 
In many a town and city 



ijb The ElepAric Lujht — Fame: 

With this electric hght, 
Which makes it most deHghtful 

To saunter down the street, 
And scrutinize the objects 

We're liable to meet; 
A light almost like sunlight, 

Magnificent and grand, 
At night is beaming gently 

All over this broad land. 
A source of satisfaction 

It is for man to know 
That he from out of darkness 

Can make such light to flow; 
To know he can control it 

According to his will, 
And light with it the mansion, 

The workshop, or the mill. 



FAME, 

There is but one thing, 
And that is fame, 

That will give to man 
And immortal name. 



Perseveranre. 151 



PERSEVERANCE, 

Should we desire our ends to gain 
In plans that we have laid, 

We must be steadfast in our aim 
And not become dismayed. 

Then obstacles will disappear 
If we will only persevere. 

In truth's bright armor let the soul 

Be shielded for defence, 
It will then hasten toward its goal, 

To soar it will commence; 
'Mong fields of light it will appear 

If we will only persevere. 

Let every one his mark set high. 
While yet in youthful bloom. 

With ardor, then, we each should try 
To reach it ere the tomb; 

Which can be done without a fear 
If we should live and persevere. 

How was it with our country's sire — 
Our own grreat Washino^ton — 



152 Perseverance — Conscience, What Is It ? 

Did he not reach a mark still higher 
Than he had set while young ? 

The reason why is very clear, 
He did most nobly persevere. 

What one has done, another can; 

Should e'er be borne in mind, 
'Tis wisdom, noir that makes the man, 

With love and truth combined. 
So while we chance to linger here 

Our duty is to persevere. 



CONSCIENCE, WHAT IS IT? 

'Tis a knowledge nature gave 
Alike to master and his slave, 
To distinguish right from wrong 
As they slowly jog along, 
Through this so called vale of tears 
On their way to riper years. 



Aii Afhlress to the BoJ)oh'7}K\ 153 



AN ADDRESS TO THE BOBOLINK, 

Bobolink, sweet Bobolink, 
Let me tell you what I think 
Of a bird that seems to me 
Happy as a bird can be : 
In the meadows, blithe and gay. 
Warbling sweetly all the day 
Such melodious notes as none 
Can create but thee alone. 
Little bird, pray tell me why 
Thus from perch to perch you fly? 
Keeping well within the bounds 
Of the lovely meadow grounds. 
Mingling music, here and there, 
With the fragrance of the air. 
Those delicious strains of thine 
As they strike this ear of mine 
Give a pleasure pure and deep 
As they o'er the senses creep. 
What is there for man in store 
That can please his fancy more 
Than the melodies that float 



54 



An AfJdress io the liohollnk — A Smart dirt. 

So spontaneous from thy throat? 
Little bird, yea, thou art queen 
Of the meadows fresh and green, 
For 'tis there thou hast full sway 
Through the livelong summer day. 
Other birds may there abound, 
Other songsters there be found, 
But no bird attracts the eye 
Like thee, or with thee can vie; 
Other birds with plumage gay 
In a measure doubtless may 
Have attractions, yet I think, 
Cannot vie with Bobolink. 



A SMART GIRL. 

I asked her if she'd have me. 

And this is what she said: 
'Oh, no, sir; no, sir; no sir; 

I do not wish to wed, 
For you must know I have, sir. 

My own dear self and mother 
Now to support and do for, 

So would not take another." 



Woman s Love. 1^5 

WOMAN^S LOVE* 

Woman's love for man is strong 
When she'll wed him right or wrongs 
Leave behind her dear old home, 
Friends and all, with him to roam. 
He may be a man of vice 
With a heart as cold as ice, 
One who is unknown to fame 
Yet she loves him just the same. 

When a woman loves a man 
Really as a woman can, 
She will love him, yes, by zounds. 
With a love that has no bounds ; 
He may be a drunken coot 
And a vagabond to boot, 
With but an indifferent name 
Yet she loves him just the same. 

He may be, as people say. 
In appearance all O. K., 
But when sounded to the core 
He will want for something more ; 
May be poor as poor can be 
Having nothing one can see. 
Lazy somewhat, sick, or lame 
Yet she loves him just the same. 



ic6 Won}fiit\9 Lore — A nihition. 

He may be of noble birth 
And a man of real wortn, 
Kind, intelligent, and would 
By his friends be reckoned good 
May be one among the few 
That is generous and true, 
And withal a man of fame 
Yet she loves him just the same. 



J^ 



AMBITION* 

I have wandered along on the ocean's strand, 
Where I left my footprints in the sand, 
But soon, very soon, the tide came on 
And then in a moment they were gone, 
Yes, gone forever and evermore 
From the fine gray sand along the shore; 
And thus it is, in this "vale of tears" 
Through which we pass in a few short years. 
The footprints we make on the sands of time 
Will be swept away, and not a sign 
Will remain to denote that we ever had 
An existence here, either good or bad, 
Unless we have made our lives sublime 



Amhition 

While gliding along with the passage of time. 

But few men there are when compared with all 

Who have lived and died on this heavenly ball, 

That by their achievements a deathless name 

For them has appeared on the scroll of fame ; 

I'll venture to say though I may be wrong, 

That not a dozen in all the throng 

That encumbers the earth to-day, though immense, 

Will be talked about one thousand years hence. 

vSo what is the use to ambitious be "i 

Ambition is but a cheat you see. 

It makes us believe we can do some thing 

That will make our name through centuries ring. 

It will spur us onward and make us do 

The labor that should be done by two. 

It will fool us along from year to year 

Till we get old and our end is near, 

And then perhaps it will lose its grip 

x\nd from its clutches we will slip, 

More dead than alive, to every one 

An object of pity, more than fun ; 

Then death will come and knock at the door 

And we'll be for^otton for evermore. 



157 



158 ^ Foeticnl Advertisement 



A POETICAL ADVERTISEMENT. 

McKibbens' is the place to go 
To buy your goods at prices low, 
They keep a stock that's unsurpassed 
By any in this region vast, 
And one that will, to say I'm bound, 
Just suit the wants of all around ; 
In fact it is but just received 
And will be liked, it is believed. 
Upon their shelves are fabrics rare. 
Selected with the greatest care, 
And from the very choicest hoards 
That our metropolis affords. 
There's cotton goods of every shade 
And woolen too of every grade, 
And silks and satins, too, I ween 
That's nice enough to dress a queen. 
The best delanes and ginghams too, 
All styles of prints both old and new, 
And clothing that is ready made 
Of which you need not be afraid, 
And boots and shoes of every kind 
Within their spacious walls you'll find. 



A Poetical Advertisement — Jfy Life. 159 

These are a part and nothing more 
Of all the goods they keep in store, 
So let me say to one and all, 
Just give them ere you buy, a call. 
And they'll convince you of the fact 
That nothing in their line is lacked 
Their clerks are most obliging too 
Will overhaul their goods for you, 
And suit you, or at least they'll try 
On any thing you w^ant to buy. 



MY LIFE, 

My life is like a river 

That doth to seaward glide 
With now^ and then a bubble 

Arising on its tide. 
This bubble is the passion 

That often w^ill arise 
Existing but a moment 

And then forever dies. 

My life is like an island, 
Forsaken and alone, 



i6o M\j Life. 



Exposed to dashing surges 
That ever 'round it moan. 

These surges are the vices 
That doth my hfe beset 

And threaten to o'erwhehn it, 
But never have they yet. 

My hfe is hke a vessel 

Upon the ocean vast 
That's more or less affected 

By each and every blast ; 
But still it struggles onward 

At a bewildering rate 
Toward its destination 

Regardless of its fate. 

My life is like a problem 

That never can be solved 
In consequence of something 

In which it is involved ; 
And so is my existence 

A mystery to man, 
For who on earth can figure 

And tell me what I am ? 



idaho. i6i 

IDAHO. 

Written in 1863 when the Territory was a wilderness- 
Idaho, Idaho, "Gem of the mountains," 
Will you go, lady, and sip from her fountains ? 
Ne'er was there land that was ever more blessed 
Than glorious Idaho of the far West. 

Idaho, Idaho, bright are her waters, 

Will you go, lady, and take up your quarters 

In her wild solitudes 'neath her blue sky 

Where crystals like streamlets go murmuring by? 

Idaho, Idaho, grand are her features, 

Will you go, lady, be one of her creatures? 

As Queen was her title, for ages ago 

Her brow was first crowned with crystallized snow. 

Idaho, Idaho, proud is her bearing. 
Will you go, lady, be noble and daring. 
Help me to strip from her bosom so fan* 
A part of the gold that is glittering there ? 

Idaho, Idaho, wild are her passes. 

Will you go, lady, be first of her lasses 

To pluck from her summits the evergreen bough 

The laurel that decorates Idaho's brow ? 



l62 l<l(illi>. 

Idaho, Idaho, wild are her legends, 
Will you go, lady, and roam o'er the regions, 
Where the red man of the forest and dell 
Down to this moment in myriads dwell ? 



THE ANSWER. 

You ask me, sir, and fain would know 
If I will link my fate with yours. 

And strike direct to Idaho 
The land that now allures, 

O yes, O yes, O yes, I will go 

And sip from the founts of Idaho. 

You ask me too in language sweet 
If I will dwell beneath her sky, 

The answer, sir, I will repeat 
And here is the reply, 

O yes, O yes, O yes, I will go 

And dwell in the wilds of Idaho. 

You ask me, sir, with graceful mien 
If I'll be pillowed on the breast. 

And tell me that she is a Queen 
Of the triumphant West, 

O yes, O yes, O yes, I will go 

And rest in the arms of Idaho. 



Tflaho — Epigram. 163 

You tell me, sir, there's shining gold 
Within her secret vaults concealed, 

And ask me if I will be bold 
And help to make her yield ; 

O yes, O yes, O yes, I will go 

And toil like a bee in Idaho. 

I'll be, sir, like the bounding buck 

If you the term will please allow, 
And of the foremost, sir, to pluck 

A laurel from her brow, 
O yes, O yes, O yes, I will go 
And mount to the heights of Idaho. 

You tell me, sir, that legends wild 
Are told of this the red man's home, 

And ask me with a visage mild 
If o'er this land I'll roam, 

O yes. O yes, O yes, I will go 

And roam with you, sir, in Idaho, 



EPIGRAM. 

That which the world calls charity 
I am impressed to say. 

Is something of a rarity 
Within the church to-day. 



164 The Forward Youth. 



THE FORWARD YOUTH, 

If you this boy should chance to meet 

You'll know him on the crowded street. 

For by his ostentatious air 

You'll know him almost anywhere ; 

He is a clever lad, "you bet," 

As jolly as you ever met. 

His feet may be entirely bare 

And frizzly his head of hair. 

His hat may be quite old and worn 

His ''pants" perhaps may have been torn. 

And on them have a patch or so 

Above the crotch, if not below ; 

And only one suspender may 

Be all that holds or makes them stay, 

And should that break the chances are 

They would collapse right then and there. 

His coat may have a hole or two, 

Besides the ones the arms go through. 

Not only these, a slit perhaps 

Beneath the armpit widely gaps. 

Upon his feet there is no lack 

Of dirt, for with it they are black. 

Although he washes them before 

Retiring through his bedroom door; 

His hands are covered with the tan 



The Forward Youth. 165 

That makes them somewhat blacker than 

They otherwise would be, and yet 

About his hands he does not fret. 

His face — the image of his dad's — 

Resembles that of other lads ; 

Upon his brow perhaps a streak 

Of dirt as well as on his cheek, 

Can easily be traced should we 

Observe his physiognomy. 

The grocerymen all hate to see 

This youth drop in — he makes so free 

With them as well as with their stock, 

He'll sample goods and with them talk 

As if he were a drummer just 

From the metropolis and must 

Supply their every need before 

He makes his exit from the door. 

He feels his great importance when 

He condescends to talk with men ; 

And readily exchanges views 

On any subject — gives the news, 

Detailing well the late events, 

Exhibiting a deal of sense. 

He is familiar with the town. 

Can name the streets both up and down, 

So well he's posted on the streets 

He knows one half the men he meets ; 



66 The Forward Youfh. 

. Thus he imagines he is "some," 

Knows where to find the choicest gum, 

And he can tell you where to find 

An article of any kind. 

He is averse to being mauled 

By other boys or being called 

By them a fool or any name 

That signifies about the same. 

Before he'll quietly submit 

He'll. AV//^/", and that's the whole of it. 

He's independent, but is kind 

To all that treat him well you'll find ; 

But when among his chums he's one 

That is disposed to have his fun, 

He'll have it too at your expense 

Regardless of the consequence. 

He chews tobacco, squirts the juice, 

Of pipes he has but little use, 

But sometimes smokes a cigarette 

Which he appreciates, " you bet." 

Our hero works when he can find 

A job to do of any kind. 

He'll black your boots and do it well, 

And frequently will peanuts sell 

Upon the streets, or cakes and pies, 

A hero is he in disguise; 

Sometimes he sells the morning news 



The Fonrard Youth. 167 

Or any paper you may choose, 
Can turn his hand at any time 
To captivate an honest dime. 
He's Hable Hke other boys 
To have his grief as well as joys 
To have a frown upon his face 
When smiles should occupy its place, 
To have a hand in mischief done 
When perpetrated just for fun ; 
He's not a saint by any means, 
And some would say to Satan leans ; 
He's not so vile, he'd do you harm, 
O no, not he, his heart is warm ; 
And many are the deeds of good 
He'd do you if 'twere so he could, 
A splendid boy is he in truth 
Although he is a forward youth, 
And this is all that can be said 
Against the boy. alive or dead. 
He has his failings, so have we. 
And we our virtues, so has he ; 
We each have trials to endure, 
Positions higher to secure. 
So when compared with you and me, 
He will compare quite favorably. 



i68 The Pre.scnf At/e. 



THE PRESENT AGE, 

What means that ocean steamer there 
That stems the current of the air, 
Resists the tide that ebbs and flows 
As o'er the ocean broad it goes ? 

What means that track of iron rails 
Extending over hills and dales, 
From town to town, from mart to mart, 
Connecting each, though wide apart ? 

What mean those trains that o'er it run 
Conveying shipment by the ton ? 
And at a most bewildering rate. 
They carry men as well as freight. 

What mean those poles in nice array 
That stand along for miles away, 
Connected only by a wire. 
To serve the purpose we desire ? 

What means that low — that clicking sound 
We hear in all the houses 'round ? 
A sound that ne'er was heard you know, 
A century or two ago. 



The Present Age — AiUograph. 169 

What means all that machinery 
That nearly everywhere we see, 
Which saves to man if not to beast 
In labor full one-half at least ? 

It means — and there is no mistake, 
That people now are wide awake, 
That principles entirely new 
Are being sought and brought to view. 

It means this is a mighty age, 
And will no doubt on history's page 
Be thus recorded, after we 
Sojourners here have ceased to be. 



e^ 



AUTOGRAPH. 

The flowers, alas, must wither and die 
And thus 'twill be Susie with you and 1, 

For not very long on earth can we stay 
And then like the flowers we'll pass away. 



1 70 JJi.ssaU.s/icd. 



DISSATISFIED. 

After a man becomes dissatisfied with married 
life, as some do, he is very Hkely to indulge in lan- 
guage similar to what is represented as being used 
in the following lines. 

On the night of the day that we married 

And after retiring to rest, 
She called me her "toutsey pout<=ey" 

And pillowed her head on my breast. 

On thinking perhaps that she loved me 

I ventured to give her a kiss ; 
Which pleased her undoubtedly somewhat, 

And gave to me exquisite bliss, 

She asked me to call her my darling 
And said she would ever be good. 

Would yield to my wishes whenever, 
In reason, she jDossibly could. 

She said — and I thought that she meant i\, 
Without me her life would be dull, 

Devoid of all bliss and enjoyment 
And be as a consequence null. 



Dissafis^ficd. 171 

She gave me the tender assurance 

That love was the hfe of her soul, 
That life without love would be aimless 

And under no sort of control. 

'Tis different now, let me tell you. 

Of late she's adopted the rule 
To snub me on every occasion, 

And calls me a "cussed " old fool. 

Her dresses long since she abandoned 

And put on the breeches instead ; 
Myself and my business she bosses. 

And takes the fore side of the bed. 

She scolds and she frets without ceasing 
And everything with her goes wrong, 

And now I am almost persuaded 
Her life cannot last very long. 

'Tis wearing away I am certain, 

Already she's looking quite old, 
'Tis said — and there's truth in the adage, 

That short is the life of a scold. 

But when it has flickered and vanished, 

No woman can ever again 
Stand up by my side and be married, 

So long as my senses remain. 



1^2 Jie.st, Soldier, Rent. 



REST, SOLDIER, REST. 

The following lines are represented as being writ- 
ten in a soldier's cemetery a few years after the war 
of the rebellion. The poem was published in the 
newspapers at the time, so that many of my readers 
have probably seen it before. 

Rest, Soldiers, rest. 

Your battles now are ended, 
And with the soil you fought for 

Your earthly forms are blended, 
Your aid was nobly given 

Your country to defend. 
But now your toils are over, 

Your hardships at an end. 

Sleep, Soldiers, sleep 

The sleep that knows no waking. 
While kindred hearts must sorrow 

Until they feel like breaking. 
Your mangled forms lie buried 

In many a sad retreat, 
Since life has lost its action 

Or pulses ceased to beat. 



Rest, Soldier, Rest. i^ ^ 

Rest, Soldiers, rest 

Where years ago you perished 
In fighting for your country, 

The land you long had cherished. 
The flag you loved so dearly 

And struggled hard to save, 
Still waves unto the breezes 

O'er many a hero's grave. 

Sleep, Soldiers, sleep, 

We'd not disturb your slumber, 
Or let no vile pollution 

Your resting grounds encumber; 
But talk about your glory. 

Your valor in the fight, 
How gained a nation's tribute 

By battling for the right. 

Sleep, Soldiers, sleep. 

No cry can now alarm you. 
Nor foe with steel uplifted 

Again can ever harm you ; 
The booming of the cannon 

Cannot you now arouse. 
Since death that king of terrors 

Has rested on vour brows. 



:7^ 77/ r fr rtiss/Ht/t/trr Jl<tl<l. 



THE GRASSHOPPER RAID. 

These lines were written in the spring of 1875. '^^^ 
grasshoppers invaded western Missouri the previous 
fall and were so numerous and their appetites so 
voracious that a famine was feared. 

'Twas autumn last the hoppers made 

In this fair land an awful raid, 

'Twas in September that they came 

But no man living was to blame 

For their appearance nor the harm 

They did to crops upon the farm.. 

When first they did to us appear 

The day was fair, the sky was clear, 

And like a million flakes of snow 

They settled to the earth below. 

Then did commence a havoc wrought — 

By red-legged hoppers, who'd have thought 

That insects of so small a size 

Could rob us right before our eyes ; 

Yet this they did, for well 'tis known 

The crops we had that season grown 



The Grasshopper Haid. 175 

Were seized, and devastation wide 

Appeared quite soon on every side. 

This was not all, for while they staid 

Deposits of their eggs were made 

In holes they bore quite deep and round, 

Where dry and solid was the ground, 

This being done, they're stuck away 

To hatch of course some other day ; 

So when the spring of seventy-five 

In all its glory did arrive. 

This vast deposit then did hatch 

And turned out hoppers, many a batch. 

At first they were so weak and small 

That they could scarcely hop at all, 

But vegetation came at length. 

Which aided them in gaining strength. 

Since then they've grown and flourished well, 

The mischief done no tongue can tell. 

They've overrun our fields of grain. 

Have cut it down time and again. 

They've made our farms a desert waste 

Unfit for man or even " baste," 

And like an avalanche of snow 

They sweep creation where they go. 

The earth appears to be alive. 

They swarm like bees around a hive. 

It absolutelv makes us sick 



1^6 The (jTi'ftss hopper Jlaid — Aitfoffrriph. 

To see them swarm so very thick ; 
How long they'll stay, or what will be 
The consequences none can see. 
A famine of proportions great 
May ultimately be our fate. 

The grasshoppers, or Rocky Mountain locust, as they 
were more properly termed, staid with us until they 
were full grown and each one supplied with a good 
pair of wings, on or about the 7th day of June, 1S75, 
they commenced disappearing, and by the loth of 
June not one could be seen anywhere. 



J^ 



AUTOGRAPH. 

You ask me to write in. your album 
But I would much rather refrain, 

So what shall I write is the question 
That puzzles this moment my brain. 



Then and JStow, 177 



THEN AND NOW, 

Oh, well do I remember, John, 
The days when we were young, 

Our homes were in old Groton then, 
Her hills we dwelt among. 

Long years,you know, since then have flown 

And old indeed we both have grown. 

Of course you must remember, John, 

The schoolhouse on the hill 
Where children used to congregate. 

As they do doubtless still. 
'Twas there I learned my a-b-c 
And to distmguish q from p. 

Oh, well do I remember, John, 

The spelling schools and all 
The evening doings that we had, 

When you and I were small; 
But youth and all its joj^s have fled 
And age to us has come instead. 



i^S Then and Novl 

Of course you will remember, John, 
Our playmates, boys and girls, 

The loveliest among them all 
Was Susie with her curls; 

But she is gone, some time ago 

She bid adieu to all below. 

And there was little "Mary," John, 
The one who had the "lamb," 

How beautiful her features were. 
Her countenance, how calm. 

She, too. has gone from earth awayj 

Undoubtedly henceforth to stay. 

The fair-ground and the church-yard, John, 
Were spots we used to tread. 

The one designed for living men. 
The other for the dead. 

You can not but remember each. 

And con the lessons that they teach. 

The lake you will remember, John, 
With waters bright and clear, 

Where often we would go and bathe, 
When evening shades drew near. 

Sometimes the girls would come there, too. 

And take a bath when we withdrew. 



Then and JSFoio. 179 

The orchard and the meadow, John, 

Were spots we loved, you know, 
The reason why I cannot tell. 

Yet this was even so. 
We frequently to them would stray, 
And have a jolly time at play. 

You can not but remember, John^ 

The mill-pond owned by Price, 
Where we would go in winter time 

To skate upon the ice. 
Most jolly times we youngsters had 
But they have passed, and 'tis too bad. 

The mill itself Til mention, John, 

While speaking of the pond, 
Within whose flume we used to fish, 

A sport of which I'm fond, 
'Twas there our fathers used to go 
To get their grinding done, you know. 

The forest, too, I'll mention, John, 

Where we would sometimes go, 
And hunt all day for smaller game 

Than bear and buff'alo, 
As boys we were regarded then 
But now are quite aged men. 



iSo Then and Kow. 

But those bright days have passed and gone, 

No more will they return, 
While you and I are journeying on 

Without the least concern. 
Our missions, John, full well you know 
Will soon be ended here below. 



So when that anxious time has come, 

And we have met again, 
We'll have no use for paper, John, 

No use for ink or pen. 
We then can talk, you know, and tell 
About those days we loved so well. 



Heaven is the opposite of hell, we have been told, 
If one is hot and torrid, then the other must be cold. 



Your Valentine. i8i 



YOUR VALENTINE, 

Methinks that I can hear you say 

That this is called "St. Vallen's" da}, 

And wondering if some lady fine 

Is writing you a valentine; 

So while these thoughts invade my mind 

My work at once shall be resigned, 

And I will try what I can do 

At scribbling out some lines for you, 

And pour into thy gentle heart 

All that to-day I dare impart. 

Like some lone bird without a mate 

My heart is sad and desolate 

And wanders here and there to find 

Some noble soul that's true and kind 

Who will in goodness condescend 

To be my ever faithful friend, 

And love me with an ardent zeal 

That one can understand and feel. 

Oh then would life be bright indeed 

If but supplied with every need. 

And loneliness no more would come 

To make it sad and wearisome. 



1 82 (rt'fnif. 



GRANT. 

The following lines were written while U. vS. Grant 
was still living, but toward the close of his life: 

He has richly earned his laurels 
In the service he has done, 
x\nd who is there that would deprive him 
Of a solitary one? 

'Twas ambition urged him onward 
In the rapid strides he took; 

That he is a man of courage 
Is apparent in his look. 

Difficulties he surmounted 
As he pushed his way along, 

"Let me rise a little higher," 
Was the tenor of his song. 

Step by step he climbed the ladder, 

In his mad career for fame. 
Till he reached an elevation 

Yielding an undying name. 



Grant — The DrunkarcCs Wail. 183 

He has made his name immortal, 

Other men have done so too, 
But the ones who have succeeded 

Are comparatively fevvr. 

Rome once had her Julius Caesar, 

Switzerland, a William Tell, 
Other countries have their heroes 

And why should not ours as well? 



J' 



THE DRUNKARD^S WAIL. 



My father and mother have both passed on, 
My uncle's and aunts are all, all gone. 
Of brothers and sisters I am bereft 
And among them all I'm the only one left. 

I never was married in all my life. 

There never was one I could call my wife, 

No children to me have ever been born. 

Which makes me most wretched, sad, and forlorn, 



184 The Drtnf/iarfVs Wnil — Truth. 

I'm old and feeble, and somewhat gray, 
Like many another I've had my day, 
And ought to be ready and willing to go 
And leave what little I have here below. 

It is but a little that I possess 

And day after day it is growing less; 

Oh what shall I do when that little is spent 

And I am no longer possessed of a cent? 

As I have become such a poor drunken sot, 
Deplorable now indeed is my lot. 
No kindred have I, I can fall back on — 
As I said before, they are all, all gone. 

Just over the hills, and not far away, 

Is that ramshackle house so dingy and gray. 

In a very few months it will catch me sure 

And I will be lodged with the wretched and poor. 



TRUTH. 

•Tis understood by people well, 
But very hard for some to tell. 



The SouVs Farewell to the Bodf/. 185 



THE SOUUS FAREWELL TO THE BODY. 

Adieu to my physical form, adieu, 
I have no more use at all for you. 
You've served me well for many a year 
While I have been a sojourner here; 
So now^ to another land I v^'ill go 
And leave you to your fate below, 
ril join the hosts that have gone before 
To the boundless realms of that other shore. 
The laws of our being must be obeyed 
Or else they never would have been made. 
Some hve a century, some but a day, 
And then like the flowers they pass away; 
But not to be losr — to live is the fate 
Of every one, both humble and great, 
'Tis only their physical forms thatmust 
Be subject to the laws that turn them to dust? 
While they will exist through ages to be 
As a fact that is fixed, unfettered and free. 
Tis evident, then, we have much to do 
In acquiring knowledge and wisdom too. 
Unless we have these, existence would be 
A blank and unfit for eternity. 
So let us gather as every one should, 



86 The Sours FaretneU to the Boibj. 

That which, by the way, will do us somegood 
And then store it up in the mind away 
To be kept for use at a subsequent day. 
'Tis garnered, of course, at a very great cost 
But with the assurance it can not be lost. 
There is one thing more I wish to say 
To my bodily form, ere I go away. 
And that is this : the physical was. 
According to nature's immutable laws, 
Designed undoubtedly to unfold, 
Develope, and then awhile for to hold 
The spiritual before it can . 
Dispense with the exterior man; 
And so you're but the effect of a cause 
Produced by the working of nature's laws. 
And now, again, I will say to you. 
Adieu, my affectionate friend, adieu. 



AUTOGRAPH. 

My pen I have plunged into ink 
Before I have had time to think 
Of a word I can write that will be 
Of the least bit of interest to thee. 



A Ki.s.s 187 



A KISS. 



There's much been said about a kiss 

In ages past as well as this. 

But as we ne'er have had our say 

We'll have it now without delay; 

Our definition of a kiss 

Is nothing more or less than this : 

It is the language of the heart 

That to another we impart 

By telling what we have to say 

In the most satisfactory way, 

Imparting it with lips alone, 

Without the aid of voice or tone. 

It is an act that only two 

Can with it have a thing to do, 

An act that does each party good 

And can not be misunderstood. 

And one that has in every age 

Been practiced even by the sage; 

And who is there that does not know, 

That from the lips sweet kisses flow. 

And from no other source on earth 

Do kisses ever have a birth. 



1 88 A Kiss. 

A monosyllable is "kiss," 

No sweeter word is there than this, 

Of magic power it is possessed, 

It cheers the heart that is depressed. 

Oh, let me here assert the fact 

That 'tis a very pleasant act, 

And one that can not be repealed 

By all the power that monarchs wield. 

'Tis practiced by the young and old, 

More potent is it far than gold, 

It is the love7'\s right to kiss 

Occasionally his pretty miss; 

It is the mother's fond delight 

To kiss her child, she has the right — 

It signifies afTection true 

And is of love a token too. 

A kiss is but a trifling thing, 

It leaves behind no pain or sting, 

And yet like an electric shock 

'Twill thrill the heart, if hard as rock. 

It sometimes makes a body glad 

And then again it makes one sad, 

And not unfrequently, real mad; 

But notwithstanding all of this, 

What girl loves not an ardent kiss? 

What girl is there in all the land, 

When she is made to understand 



A Kiss. 189 

Its full purport, would then resist 

Her inclination to be kissed? 

When two fair girls collide and kiss 

There's nothing in the act amiss, 

Although we are inclined to say. 

You'd better greet some other way; 

For in a crowd there's always some 

Will have their sport, let what ivill come, 

Will have it too at your expense 

Regardless of the consequence. 

There is a time for every thing, 

A time to dance, a time to sing, 

A time to ride, a time to walk, 

A time to kiss, a time to talk. 

The time to snatch a kiss, is when 

You 're out of sight of living men; 

For no remarks will then be made 

To cast upon the act a shade. 

And as a consequence, the kiss 

Will be a source of perfect bliss. 

The proper time we have revealed 

For this ought not to be concealed. 

So now we'll undertake to tell 

Just how to kiss and do it well. 

To do the thing, or so to speak. 

Requires, of course, a little cheek, 

A pair of lips won't come amiss 



90 A Kiss. 

In making an attempt to kiss, 

Of course they should be made to pout; 

That is protrude a little out, 

Then gently to the cheek be pressed — 

'Tis easy now to do the rest. 

There is about a kiss, a charm, 

Incapable of doing harm, 

Although a few may not agree 

Exactly on this point with me, 

But there are others, by the way, 

Will bear me out in what I say. 

And would be willing to assert, 

A kiss can be but little hurt; 

But be this matter as it may, 

I have but little more to say, 

Although we might much longer dwell 

Upon a theme we love so well. 

It is a theme that one and all 

That dwell upon this heavenly ball, 

Are apt to take an interest in 

And not regard it as a sin. 

'Tis right to kiss the ones we love, 

'Tis done, no doubt, in realms above; 

And what is right can not be wrong, 

So let us kiss right straight along^ 



Ha 2)}^ in ess a Gem. 191 



HAPPINESS A GEM. 



Birds are happy, hear them sing, 
How they make the woodlands ring, 
People might be happy too, 
Just as well as the cuckoo. 

They're rejoicing o'er the fact 
That they have the power to act, 
And can pass away the time 
Warbling music most sublime. 

In their garb of plumage gay, 
Just as lovely as the day, 
How they twitter, coo, and kiss, 
First on that side, then on this. 

Watch them how they dart about 
' Mong the tree tops in and out. 
Nodding as they chance to meet 
In so lovely a retreat. 



92 Happiness a Gem — Coii^indrvw. 

Life tothem seems but a joy, 
Pure and sweet without alloy, 
Yet they may have gloomy days 
When the sun withholds his rays. 

People might be happier far 
Than these woodland songsters are. 
If they'd strive with all their might 
Toward setting things aright. 

All should live according to 
Nature's laws, so grand and true, 
If the boon called happiness 
Shall the world in future bless. 

Every man and woman should 
Do to others as they would 
Have all others do to them. 
If they'd gain the precious gem. 



J^ 



CONUNDRUM. 

What place is there no man can get to 
unless he runs ? (Congress.) 



An Address to a forest Tree. 



AN ADDRESS TO A FOREST TREE, 

Magnificent tree of the forest, 

With pleasure we gaze upon thee 

Exclaiming with heartfelt emotion 
Thou art a most beautiful tree. 

An object of pure admiration 
Art thou to the lone passerby, 

For seldom has there been developed 
A thing that so pleases the eye. 

Widcrspreading and lofty thy branches, 
Extending some distance around, 

O, what in preation is nobler ! 

That ever grew out of the ground. 

Magnificent are thy proportions, 
As straight as an arrow thou art. 

In modeling thee for creation 

Great Nature has well done her part, 

Majestic indeed is thy bearing 

Since fallen it has to thy lot 
To be lung of the forest, and ever 

To reign in so lonely a spot. 



193 



9+ 



An A(J(Jress to a ?%>resf Tree. 

The wind as it plays with thy branches 
Produces, although somewhat queer, 

A sort of monotonous music 
Familiar to every ear. 

A luindred long years thou hast flourished 
And still thou art living and sound, 

Yet strange it may seem that the lightnings 
Have missed thee while darting around. 

In days that have long siiice departed 
The little pappoose doubtless played, 

Apart from the sun's rays so scorching, 
Beneath thy magnificent shade. 

Thefawn, like the kid and the lambkin, 

Has many and many a time 
In all probability gamboled 

Beneath those huge branches of thine. 

We would say to that woodsman out yonder 
Whoever that woodsman may be, 

O have, in thy bosom, compassion 
And spare that conspicuous tree. 



Happii Dying. 195 



HAPPY DYING. 

O, let us live from day to day 
In such a manner that we may 
When life is ending truly say, 

O, this is happy dying ; 
For pure indeed must be the heart 
When we with earth can bear to part. 
And for an unknown land to start 

And meet the scenes so trying. 

The man that hath a conscience clear, 
In life or death hath naught to fear; 
But ho2)e that heart will onward cheer 

With words so edifying 
That he will feel his pulses beat 
With high emotion, and can meet 
The "king of terrors" and repeal 

That this is happy dying. 

Each deed and thought of every cast 
That has a reference to the past, 
WiU be reraembered when at last 



[96 Happy Diiinfi — The Bachelor's Lament. 

Upon our couch we're lying, 
So let our lives devoted be 
To deeds of love and charit}', 
If we would then exclaim with glee 

That this is happy dying. 

'Tis truly said from earth we go, 
But whither, few can tell, or know, 
But leave we must our home below, 

vSo there's no use of crying ; 
But let us cheerfully comply 
With nature's laws, and by and by 
We can exclaim without a sigh, 

That this is happy dying. 



J' 



THE BACHELOR'S LAMENT, 

1 was born to be odd, 

I really believe, 
Till the day when a sod 

They over me heave. 



The Profipecfor''s Own Song. 197 



THE PROSPECTOR'S OWN SONG, 

The following poem was written in the Salmon 
River Mountains, Idaho, in 1863. 

Now with your kind permission, "gents," 

I will attempt to sing, 
And if I fail, O, blame me not. 

For such a trifling thing. 
Some years ago when but a lad 

I longed to be a man. 
That I might range this mountain chain 

With pick and shovel and pan. 

Long had I dreamed of riches vast 

Existing in this soil. 
And even thought my fortune made 

Without laborious toil. 
So when the time at length arrived 

To execute my plan, 
A good "cyuse" was in demand 

And pick and shovel and pan. 



198 The Prosper to !'''>> Own Soikj. 

When all of these had been procured 

My outfit was complete ; 
And then I felt like one that has 

The world beneath his feet. 
Two jolly boys I did enlist, 

Their names were Dick and Dan, 
In buoyant hopes we then struck out 

With pick and shovel and pan. 

O'er pathless wilds, through deep ravines, 

Or up some steep ascent, 
Our toilsome march we did pursue 

Regardless where we went. 
And thus we roamed with wild delight 

Till winter months began, 
When all decided to return 

With pick and shovel and pan. 

And now the sequel you shall have 

Before my story ends, 
And in return I shall expect 

Your sympathy, my friends, 
In all our rounds we did not get 

A cent's worth to the man. 
And all on earth I now possess 

Is pick and shovel and pan. 



REASON. 

There is a flower — a real flower, 

That does not wither in an hour, 

It is not found in gardens gay 

Among the flowers that fade away. 

Nor is it found in meadows green, 

By mortal eye it ne'er was seen. 

It does not grow on mountains high 

Whose summits mingle with the sky, 

xNFor yet on banks of streams that flow 

Toward the sea, O no, O no. 

In every mind that's hale and sound 

There this immortal flower is found. 

The simple name that is applied 

To this strange flower, our mortal guide, 

Is Reason, and a name that can 

Be understood by any man 

However weak of heart or head. 

Illiterate, or lowly bread. 

It is a principle divine, 

Implanted for a wise design. 

And should we not it exercise 

To make us noble, good, and wise? 

It really is an attribute 

That disunites us from the brute. 

While we this principle possess 



99 



ioo liectson. 

In measure somewhat, more or less, 
The brute is not possessed you see 
Of it in but a shght degree ; 
For who is there has ever heard 
Of reptile vile, or beast, or bird. 
That bridges build, or lofty towers. 
By exercise of reasoning powers? 
Should we the difference compute 
That doth exist 'twixt man and brute. 
We'll find the contrast wide indeed 
' Except in minor points of need. 
Sensation is in each complete. 
In this the brute can well compete 
With mortal man, for in the brute 
Sensation is beyond dispute 
As nice and perfect as it can 
Be in the well-developed man. 
One is possessed of instinct, and 
The other, reaso7i, nice and grand. 
Reason will aid us as we wend 
Our way along to comprehend 
Great nature's laws so that we may 
A little wiser grow each day ; 
While instinct is an attribute 
Belonging only to the brute. 
And will not, cannot m the least, 
Do aught to elevate the beast. 



Jtatie and Joe. 20i 



KATE AND JOE. 

There was a wife in Oldtown 

Not very long ago, 
While sick and quite discouraged 

Said to her husband Joe : 
" I have not long to stay here, 

My pulse is growing weak, 
But while my strength remains, Joe, 

I will attempt to speak. 

" Now what I want to say, Joe, 

Is nothing more than this : 
When I am dead and buried 

You'll have no one to kiss, 
You'll have no one to love you, 

No one to make your bed. 
No one you can caress, Joe, 

When I, alas, am dead. 

"You'll have no bosom friend then 
To tell your troubles to, 



i02 Kalit and ,fve. 

No one to live or care for, 
O dear, what will you do? 

Your life will be so lonely, 
So sad and desolate 

That my advice would be Joe, 
To find yourself a mate. 



" And there is one in Oldtown 

That 1 would recommend. 
Who for a dozen years, Joe, 

Has been my dearest friend. 
Her name is Mollie Hudson, 

She lives on Second street, 
She told me she vould have ^ou — 

'Twould make a match complete."' 



" I hope you do not mean, Kate, 

That fidgety old maid. 
Who visits you so often 

And makes such a parade." 
"She is the one I mean, Joe, 

A splendid wife she'll make, 
For neatness and precision 

The premium she'd take." 



Katie and Joe. 203 

" But then she snuffs you know, Kate, 

She snuffs too much for me. 
She's full of whims and notions 

As any one can be. 
And then she is so old, Kate, 

Her life is too near spent. 
She's been of age a long time 

Besides she's corpulent. 

"O, really 'tis too bad, Kate^ 

That you should mention her. 
Since there are maids in Oldtown 

That I would much prefer. 
Now there is Fanny Jones, Kate, 

Who's only sweet sixteen, 
She's not so very fat, Kate, 

Nor yet so very lean. 

" We've talked the matter over. 

Miss Fanny Jones and I, 
She says that she will have me 

But not until you die. 
And that will not be long, Kate, 

You're failing very fast, 
A week at most will be, Kate, 

As long as you can last." 



204 Katie ai}d Joe. 

She listened with attention 

To all he had to say, 
As there upon her sick couch 

In agony she lay. 
And when his speech was ended 

She made him this reply, 
" I'll tell you what it is, Joe, 

Vm not a going to die.'''' 

Nor did she die — the will-power 

Produced by what he said 
Accomplished well its purpose, 

In raising her from bed. 
And all that dwell in Oldtown 

Most willingly would say 
That she is one among them 

Alive and well today. 



3£y Wife's Picture. 205 



MY WIFE'S PICTURE. 

'Tis as beautiful a picture as ever you saw 

About it you can not discover a flaw^, 

'Tis gilded v^^ith something resembling gold 

And hangs in the parlor for all to behold; 

'Tis the picture of one that is dear to my heart 

Nor could I consent with the relic to part. 

To you it may be of but little account 

And be bartered away for the smallest amount; 

'Tis not so with me, for the picture I prize 

'As much as the blind would a good pair of eyes. 

'Twas taken when she was the belle of the town 

In which she had dwelt from her infancy down 

To an age interesting and lovely besides, 

To the age when a girl into womanhood glides; 

'Twas taken one day when the flowers were in bloom 

Delightfully yielding the richest perfume. 

When a friend of her youth constructed a wreath 

From the flowers that had grown in the valley beneath 

And p'aced it upon the delicate brow, 

As seen in the picture I'm gazing at now. 

The artist his business most certainly knew 

While painting a picture to nature so true, 

Most wonderful, too, was the talent displayed 



2o6 J/// Wife's Pirfnre — Tlic llcrwit of Colorado. 

Wlien features so life-like his pencil portrayed, 

The tints that had rested upon her fair cheek 

Had been by the artist transferred, so to speak, 

And here they appeared in this picture you see 

As bright and as lovely as lovely can be. 

The wreath that encircles her ivory brow 

Was well interwoven, I could not tell how, 

Yet lilies and roses and jessamines rare 

Have met and commingled with each other there 

The picture is lovely, I very well know, 

From the crown of the head to the tip of the toe; 

But lovely indeed as the picture may be 

Her form in the parlor I'd much rather see. 



-^ 



THE HERMIT OF COLORADO. 

In the wilds of Colorado 

Oh, here is where I dwell, 
My home is on the mountain 

Within the wildest dell, 
The beasts that roam the desert 

My sole companions are, 
The elk, the deer, the beaver. 

The coyote, and bear. 



The Hermit of Colorado. 207 

In the wilds of Colorado 

Oh, here is where I dwell, 
Beneath a clustering arbor 

That suits my fancy well, 
'Tis here among the mountains 

I while the time away. 
Despite the many dangers 

Encountered day by day. 

In the wilds of Colorado 

Oh, here is where I dwell, 
'Tis soil I love most dearly, 

Far more than tongue can tell ; 
There is no land more pleasing 

On which the eye can gaze, 
No land is there more worthy 

Of universal praise. 

In the wilds of Colorado, 

O, here is where I dwell, 
A log my chair and table, 

My bunk a rocky cell; 
And from this rude construction 

'Tis often I will roam. 
And plant me on some summit 

To view my mountain hom^. 



3oS The Hermit of Colorndo 

In the wilds of Colorado 

Oh, here is where I dwell, 
The love I bear this region 

No power on earth can quell, 
Nor is the thing surprising 

If love for her is felt, 
When long within her limits 

A hermit I have dwelt. 

In the wilds of Colorado 

Oh, here is where I dwell, 
Enchantment though I suffer 

That binds me like a spell; 
Her mountains are so lofty, 

Her plains so widely spread, 
IJer vales so green and lovely 

'!fhat art to them is dead. 

In the wilds of Colorado 

Oh, here is where I dwell, 
And here will doubtless linger 

Until the latest knell 
Of this, my earth existence, 

Shall sound my ear to fill 
With welcome invitations 

To call me higher still, 



Qarfield. 209 



GARFIELD, 

He had climbed the mount of glory, 

On its pinnacle he stood, 
Grand, majestic, and was doubtless 

One among the great and good. 

By the act of an assassin. 

And in spite of Dr. Bliss, 
Garfield's soul is marching onward 

Through a higher sphere than this. 

He had suffered, deeply suffered. 

For eleven weeks or more. 
From the wound that Guiteau's bullet 

Opened as it through him tore. 

While 'twixt life and death he struggled 
Not a murmur from him passed, 

Proving that he was courageous 
And heroic to the last. 

But his sufferings now are over 
And he 's gone from earth away, 



^lo a It r field. 

Nevermore again to mingle 
With terrestrial forms of clay. 

From the mansion executive, 
Garfield's body has been borne 

To his grave beside lake Erie. 
And a nation made to mourn. 

As his stately form lies buried 
In the soil beneath his bier, 

All that we can now do for him 
Is to drop a glistening tear. 

By the action of a villain 

Great has been the loss endured. 

And 'tis obvious that nothing 
By the deed has been secured, 

Notwithstanding that old adage, 

Which some credence has obtained, 

That in every loss there's something 
Absolutely to be gained. 

As he is no more, now let us 
To our loss become resigned 

Then in reconciliation 

We will consolation find. 



Jones'' Farw. 



JONES' FARM, 

It is a magnificent farm 

As ever lay out of the door, 
'Twill suit any one to a charm 

That chances to view the place o'er. 

'Tis prairie and woodland combined, 

Devoid of gutter or ditch, 
And no where around can you find 

A soil so decidedly rich. 

'Tis rolling enough to convey 
The water that falls on the farm, 

To places some distance away 
And not let it do any harm. 

Not rolling enough quite to wash 
The soil should it rain for a week, 

As many a pumpkin and squash 

Would testify could they but speak. 

No rocks can be found anywhere 
Within its broad limits I know, 

But what could be hurled through the air 
By any schoolboy that can throw. 



2 I I 



312 J one's Fann — Autoffraph. 

'Tis destitute too of ravines, 

An absolute fact, and no myth — 

And were I possessed of the means, 
The farm I would purchase forthwith. 

Not a hillock, or even a mound, 
Arises to shut out the view, 

And what is said here will be found 
In ever particular true. 

Much else might be said of the place, 
And sentences wrote by the score, 

But neither my time nor my space 
Will admit of another word more. 



^ 



AUTOGRAPH, 

(Written in my son's album.) 

I'd not have you avaricious, 
But to some extent ambitious 
So that on the scroll of fame, 
I might sometime read your name. 



The VilUuje Cobhier. 



THE VILLAGE COBBLER. 

The village cobbler there he sits, 

He makes but little by his wits, 

But hammers, sews, and pegs away 

From early morn till close of day. 

A useful man is he indeed 

And one whose services we need, 

In good repair he keeps our shoes 

And keeps us posted on the news. 

He is a man devoid of rank 

Nor does he own a mill or bank, 

And yet he thinks he has enough 

And some to spare, of this world's "stuftV 

'Tis easy to enumerate 

All that belongs to his estate. 

He has his pipe of clay to smoke. 

His bench constructed out of oak. 

His hammer and his pegging awl. 

Of shoe-thread too he has a ball ; 

A few old lasts has he to use 

In cobbling up our boots and shoes ; 

His knife, as keen as any briar, 



14 TJie \^lll<i(ic Cohhhir. 

\yill almost clip into a wire. 
These are the things that constitute 
His worldly goods beyond dispute ; 
From earthly cares so nearly free 
A haj)py man indeed is he. 
Upon his bench he sits and pegs 
But seldom gets upon his legs, 
And thus he toils from day to day 
When scarcely he can make it pay. 
Our cobbler is a cJerer man, 
He will oblige you if he can, 
He'll suffer some you may depeml 
But what a neighbor he'll befriend ; 
A ffentleman this cobbler is, 
Who seldom gets above his "biz," 
Attending strictly to his own 
He lets vour "biz" and rnine alone ; 
Our hero is an honest man. 
He pays his debts whene'er he can, 
And when his promises are out 
They'll be fulfilled beyond a doubt. 
And so a tr^ithful man you see 
Our village cobbler needs must be. 
The village children love him all, 
While passing by they sometimes call 
To see him work or hear him sing 
Or for their shoes to get a string. 



The Villaf/e Cobbler — Sincerity. 

He is beloved by young and old, 
Not for his silver or his gold 
As this is something he has not, 
For it has ever been his lot 
A cobbler (jootJ to be, but poor, 
A fate he always must endure 
So long as life its sway can hold 
No silver will he have, or gold. 



^ 



SINCERITY. 

He to her. 
Now to the point, my darling : 

You know I have the money, 
And that is what you're after 

So will you have me, honey .^ 

She to him. 
I cannot say I love you. 

My little Dickey Dilver, 
But then I guess I'll w^ed you 

Just for your gold and silver. 



2i6 nifof r<l lid I her Be. 



WHAT TD RATHER BE. 

The following poem is represented as being written 
by a young lady in answer to the question : " Would 
you like to be a Queen or the wife of a King and 
live in town, or would you rather be the wife of 
some man occupying a more humble position in life? 
And if the latter what occupation would you prefer 
that he should have?" 

I'd rather be a farmer's wife 
And live a quiet rural life, 
Than on my head to wear a crown 
And dwell in some magnific town. 

I'd rather to my house work go 
And toil until the sun is low, 
Than to a princely court repair 
And meet the lords assembled there, 

I'd rather cook the food I eat 
And know it to be clean and neat. 
Than have a train of servants share 
Their efforts to rny food prepare, 



What Vd Bather Be. 217 

I'd rather o'er the wash-tub bend 
Or e'en my husband's breeches mend, 
Than be the one to wield the pen 
That often seals the fate of men. 

I'd rather to my bosom press 

My baby in a fond caress, 

Than be compelled to shake the hand 

Of any noble in the land. 

I'd rather in my parlor sit 
And with my finger sew and knit. 
Than have the people at me stare 
As if I were a grizzly bear. 

I'd rather be to fame unknown 
And bear no burdens but my own, 
Than on my head to wear a crown 
And be a queen of high renown. 

Upon the whole I'd rather be 
A lady from all titles free, 
Than be a queen of stately form 
To bear the brunt of every storm. 



2l8 .1 l>i'((illi. 



A DREAM. 

The following lines are represented as being writ- 
ten by a lover to his sweetheart. 

I had a dream the other night 

Or else a vision, love, 
I thought I was an angel bright 

And roamed through realms above. 

In some abnormal state perchance 
Might then have been my mind, 

I probably was in a trance. 
Or something of the knid. 

I seemed to pass from earth away 

Like gliding down a stream, 
And halted where the angels stay — 

" It was not all a dream.'' 

'Twas then I made good use of eyes. 

Awhile I stood and gazed 
Upon the grandeur of the skies 

Like one that was amazed. 



A Dream. 

The dazzling splendor of the scene 

Was all that I could bear, 
The place was clothed in living green 

And music filled the air. 

With odors sweet the atmosphere 

Seemed laden heavily, 
And every breeze it did appear 

Brought them direct to me. 

Outspread before me here and there 

Were flowers of every hue, 
Which made the landscape rich and rare 

And most enchanting too. 

'Twas millions upon millions, love, 

Of spirits saw I there, 
Inhabiting those realms above 

So marvelously fair. 

In all that land I did not see 

One lovelier than thou, 
'Twas that way then it seemed to me, 

And seems so to me now. 

All I beheld within the heart 
Of that bright land, I know, 



319 



230 A Dream — Avfof/rnjjhs. 

Was nothing but the counterpart 
Of what we see below. 

But every dream, however sweet, 
Outside of what's divine, 

Will have an end that is complete 
And thus it was with mine. 

When I awoke the clock struck ten. 
The sun through skylights gleamed, 

The fact became apparent then 
That I had more than dreamed. 



J' 



AUTOGRAPHS. 

As this is a poetic age, 

And autographs are all the rage, 
I, too, will try my hand at one. 

And write in rhyme as all have done. 

I do not see as others see, 

Nor think as others do, 
As there should be variety 

Beneath the heavens so blue. 



'-'-Befivtif}'! Snoiv 



^^ BEAUTIFUL SNOW. 

There has much been said 

Of the " beautiful snow," 
That falls from above 

To the ground below 
Descending in flakes 

That lodge at our feet 
Enshrouding the earth 

Like a winding sheet. 

It may without doubt 

Be all very true, 
May seem indeed beautiful. 

Reader to you, 
But I must confess 

'Tis not so with me, 
No beauty in snow 

Did I ever yet see. 

It hides from our view 
The beautiful earth 
And prompts us to seek 



222 '' Hemitiful Snoir.'' 

The fireside and hearth, 
It makes all appear 

A desolate waste, 
A picture devoid 

Of beauty and taste. 

There's nothing- appears 

So vacant I know, 
So dreary and bleak 

As " beautiful snow," 
About it methinks 

There's naught to admire 
Or aught that can please 

One single desire. 

Its nature is so 

Confoundedly cold 
'Tis not very pleasant 

A handful to hold 
Or even to give it 

A delicate touch, 
This " beautiful snow" 

That's talked of so much 



Benumbing our flesh 
Is what it will do. 



''Beaiififul Snoir"' — Autograph. 22^ 

Resulting in aches 

That are sure to ensue, 
The fact is apparent 

And has been of old 
That 'tis no more pleasant 

To touch than behold. 

Methinks as I fix 

Upon it my gaze 
That there can be naught 

About it to praise. 
Or even a thing 

About it to love, 
Although it has come 

From resfions above. 



AUTOGRAPH, 

I hope, my friend, you will not laugh 
When you behold my autograph, 
For let me here declare to you 
That 'tis the best that I can do. 



224 The (Jonfenfirid ii' s ficrerU 



THE CENTENARIAN^S REVERIE. 

A hundred long years have gone by 
Since the trivial day of my birth, 

And now I am ready to die, 

And leave all I have upon earth. 

They call me a veteran old — 

A relic antique for the age. 
And publish in letters of gold 

That I am a "veteran sage." 

For my love in humanity's sake 
My name they revere, it is true, 

With respect to this matter I take 
A decidedly different view. 

We are bound to each other by ties 
And closely connected in fact, 

What we owe to humanity lies 
In helping each other to act. 

By heeding each summons when called 
Mv duty I only have done, 



The Centenarian's Reverie — Death. 225 

For which I should not be extolled 
By any one under the sun. 

Alas ! Of what trivial worth 

Are the praises of fallible man, 
Who's naught but a dweller of earth — 

A speck in the infinite plan. 

My battles of life now are o'er, 

The sun of my glory is set, 
I am nearing that radiant shore 

Where pilgrims so often have met. 

My property now I convey 

To those who have on it a claim. 

And can conscientiously say 

I have not lived wholly in vain. 



DEATH, 

When we no more can get our breath 
'Tis then we'll sleep the sleep of death. 



226 The Grecian Bend. 



THE GRECIAN BEND, 

The following poem was written in 1S73 
when the Grecian Bend was in fashion. 

The Grecian Bend — where did it start? 
I'm certain 'tis a thing of art. 
For well I know that nature ne'er 
Produced a thing so very queer. 

I fain would ask some lady friend 
To tell me why the Grecian Bend 
Has with her sex such favor gained 
When at its sight I'm really pained. 

Methinks that I can hear her say 
That 'tis the fashion of the day. 
And like a log that has a bump 
A woman now must have a hump. 

I ne'er have heard a man of sense 
Express himself in its defense. 
But take it as a general rule 
He speaks of it in ridicule. 



The Grecian Bend — Autograph. 227 

Suppose a sage of ancient birth 
Was to descend from .heaven to earth, 
I wonder what he'd have to say 
About the fashions of to-day. 

To see a lady with a hump 
An inch or two above her "rump," 
Would puzzle him, I'll bet a cent, 
To tell exactly what it meant. 

The sight indeed would scare him so 
That back to heaven he would go, • 
And ne'er again would wish to roam 
Beyond the confines of his home. 

The Grecian Bend will have its day. 
Like other things 'twill pass away, 
When something else will take its place 
To add to woman's form a grace. 



AUTOGRAPH, 

We should add to what we already know 
A little more as we older grow. 



3 28 On an Old Maid. 



ON AN OLD MAID. 



'•O, pity the sorrows of a poor old maid," 

Without a chick or a child, 
Whose beauty already begins to fade 

Like the tints from the roses wild. 

Whose days here below are dwindling away 

As fast as they possibly can. 
Without the least prospect, I'm sorry to say, 

Of her ever obtaining a man. 

Who has not haa an offer in all of her life. 
Though the beaux have been plenty indeed, 

Undoubtedly would she have made a good wife 
For the one that belonged to her creed. 



But now she is fidgety, wrinkled, and old, 
As a matter of course she must be, 

On the old maid's list she has long been enrolled. 
But nevertheless she is free. 



On an Old 31 a id — My Wife. 229 

Yes, free as the gay, feathered tribes of the air 

To go and to come when she may, 
With no one to dictate, or even to care, 

As to whether she's home or away. 

Should her Hfe hnger on till she's three score and ten 

She'd be crabbed and cross as a bear. 
She would care not a fig for any one then 
. Nor for her would there any one care. 

I never have thought I could be an old maid. 

Although I would doubtless be free ; 
Could bask if I chose in the sunshine or shade 

Still the life would be dreary to me, 

MY WIFE. 

On the beautiful prairie is where I dwell, 

I have a home there and I love it well, 

In that home there is one who is dear to my heart. 

And according to law of myself she's a part. 

Very true it may be but I rather suspect 

That the law may not be altogether correct. 

Be this as it may, she's my darling, my dove, 



230 Mil ^yif*'- 

And the one above all I most ardently love. 

My w^ife is affectionate, gentle, and fair. 

And willing with me all my fortunes to share ; 

She looks so becoming, so tastily neat, 

So modest, so lovely, so charming, and sweet, 

She keeps herself tidy as tidy can be 

And ever is ready to welcome me. 

With broomstick in hand she frequently sweeps. 

Her house in good order she usually keeps. 

In arranging her furniture, here let me say, 

An exquisite taste she is wont to display. 

In trimming her dresses, or those of some belle. 

Her taste is exhibited equally well, 

There is great regularity in and about 

The kitchen, the pantry, the chamber, throughout ; 

And all of her meals, they are regular too 

As the sun that looks down from the heavens so blue 

Her beds are made up by herself all alone 

And her equal at this I have never yet known, 

They are downy and soft I would have you to know 

And her sheets are as white as the crystallized snow. 

She is cheerful withal, not a fault can I see, 

Accomplished and witty — a model is she. 

It is pleasant to dwell on her qualities rare. 

But pleasanter still in her favor to share, 

I call her my darling, my dutiful wife, 

The light, and the love, and the joy of my life. 



Religion. 231 



RELIGION. 

Some people would define Religion as a strict ob- 
servance or recognition of certain rites and ceremo- 
nies, as a system of faith and worship. Others would 
define it as a high sense of duty or moral obligation 
we owe, alike to ourselves and our fellow man, a ven- 
eration and love for that which is good and say it is 
a principle inherent in the human race, and has to 
be developed before any good will be derived from 
it. ^Ingersoll, however, would give it a different defini- 
tion still. He says religion is "help for the living and 
hope for the dead." Our definition of it and wha<^ it 
will do is this : 

Religion — what a boon 

To weak and erring man. 
For such it has been deemed 

Since first the world began. 

Religion is a power 

That ever works for good, 
Enabling us to do 

Exactlv as we should. 



232 iteligion. 

Religion helps restrain 

The weak from doing wrong, 

To them it is a gain, 

^Twill even aid the strong. 

Religion gives us hope 
As well as joy and peace, 

All this 'twill do and more. 
Our faith it will increase. 

Religion does us good. 
It makes the soul rejoice 

When we with age are bowed 
And tremulous the voice. 

Religion has us do 

To others as we would 

Have them to do to us, 
And so it must be good. 

Inside the church or out 
This fact we must admit, 

It is not every man 

That is possessed of it. 



Ventennlal. 



CENTENNIAL. 

The following Centennial Address was 
written and published the Fourth of July, 
1876. 

PART I. 

It is presumed that well you know 

About a century ago 

Some colonies had overspread 

The very land on which we tread, 

Whose history we now propose 

To give in ryhme instead of prose ; 

And also how we had a birth 

Among the nations of the earth. 

It is a story somewhat old, 

And many a time it has been told, 

By old and young, the good and bad. 

By "dimocrat" as well as "rad," 

But notwithstanding all of this 

Perhaps it may not be amiss 

For me, in my peculiar way. 

To tell it on this glorious day ; 

A day that we with joy should hail, 

To celebrate we should not fail, 



^35 



234 (Jciifennial, 

A day so seldom to be seen, 

For such are few and far between. 

Now as this day has dawned at last 

A backward glance through time we'll cast, 

Go back a hundred thousand suns 

And trace the story as it runs. 

At Jamestown in Virginia, 

We have authority to say, 

A settlement of note was made 

By pioneers of English grade, 

And was the first upon the coast 

Of which our countrymen can boast. 

Soon after that a pilgrim band 

Departed from their native land. 

And settled on New England's shore 

Two hundred years ago or more, 

Sectarian were they indeed, 

And Puritan was called their creed. 

The Mayflower was the bark that bore 

These pilgrims from their native shore. 

O'er billows wild they had been tossed 

For months, before the sea was crossed, 

When all were landed on a strand, 

Far from their own — their native land : 

Yes there they stood, that ardent few 

Who'd changed the Old World for the New, 

Who'd braved the dangers of the sea 



Centenviol. • 235 

That they might independent be. 

'Twas winter time, and all around 

The snow was deep upon the ground, 

No shelter but the forest vast 

To shield them from the wintry blast. 

Methinks I see that little flock 

Still standing there at Plymouth rock. 

Surrounded by a hostile foe 

More dreadful than the imps below ; 

Yet from that bold and ardent few 

A nation sprung, and formed, and grew. 

At first great difficulties had 

To be o'ercome, by good or bad. 

Before much progress could be made 

Or permanent foundations laid. 

In order for to prosper well 

The Indian race they had to quell. 

For very soon they did become 

To pioneers quite troublesome ; 

'Twas often they would prowl about 

And butcher settlers out and out, 

So what was there that could be done 

Except to load and shoulder gun 

And to the forest go and dare 

The dangers that would meet them there? 

To make the savages repent 

Was now the white man's sole intent, 



2;^6 Centennial. 

They fought him with a desperate will, 
They fought to conquer or to kill ; 
The "reds" at last became dismayed, 
And then aside their weapons laid. 
Now for a while peace reigned supreme 
And every one began to dream 
Of happiness, as it would seem. 
And went to work with right good will 
His cup of happiness to fill ; 
They did increase and flourish well, 
The lofty forest trees they fell, 
They opened homes on every hand 
Throughout a great extent of land, 
They built up cities, here and there, 
All o'er a land of beauty rare ; 
When opulent they had become 
Which was at least the case with some. 
And when great progress had been made 
In arts, in science, and in trade. 
And everything looked clear and bright 
A cloud appeared as dark as night, 
Their peace and happiness to mar, 
For 'twas the dismal cloud of war ; 
But let us for a moment pause 
Before we blunder at the cause* 



Centennial. 237 

PART ir. 

The Mother Country in her pride, 

Although to us so near alHed, 

Began to look with jealous eyes 

Upon this people, and devise 

Some means by which her royal crew 

Might draw from us a revenue. 

The subject was discussed, of course, 

With some degree of mental force, 

By those who now proposed to rule 

A people stubborn as a mule ; 

It was indeed a dangerous theme, 

But soon they hit upon a scheme, 

To tax us lightly at the first 

And heavier still whene'er they durst. 

The Stamp Act now by them was passed. 

Which was enough our hopes to blast, 

They laid a duty on the tea 

That had been wafted o'er the sea. 

Our rights were shamefully abused, 

Representation was refused, 

'Twas their design that we should yield 

To them the power that they might wield 

The scepter now, at our expense, 

Regardless of the consequence ; 

It was supposed we would submit 



23S Centennial. 

By all, except such men as Pitt, 
Who claimed to know us well enough 
And did what they could do in fact 
To know that this was nought but stuff, 
To make their countrymen retract, 
r^ut all that they could do or say- 
Was labor lost or thrown away. 
So we were taxed and taxed again, 
We plead for justice, but in vain, 
'Twas evident the time had come 
When something serious must be done. 
Our men were active, stout, and brave, 
Their object was the land to save 
From tyranny's relentless power 
Which now oppressed them hour by hour 

PART 111. 

One hundred years ago to-day 
The people of this land did say, 
We'll free and independent be 
Of British rule beyond the sea. 
They now believed they had the bone 
And muscle too to stand alone — 
To sink or swim, to live or die. 
They had resolved the thing to try. 
Full well they knew their destiny. 



Centennial. 239 

'Twas obvious or plain to see 

That Britain's power they'd have to fight 

With all their energy and might. 

The Declaration being made 

Most skillful plans, and deep, were laid 

To carry out their bold intent 

For certainly they business meant. 

It was a bold and daring act 

There's no one can deny the fact. 

And one that tried their courage more 

Than it had e'er been tried before. 

Sir William Howe in pomp was sent 

To make us of this act repent, 

And when he reached Columbia's shore 

He made his huge old cannon roar ; 

He thought he'd scare us into fits 

And to this end employed his wits, 

He scattered soldiers here and there, 

But somehow 'twas we did not scare. 

We now appointed Washington, 

Columbia's most honored son, 

To take at once the chief command 

Of all the forces in the land. 

The war of course had now begun 

And crimson were the streams that run, 

For many a man that battled well 

In freedom's cause most nobly fell, 



'40 Centennial. 

Suffice to say for eight long years 

This land was bathed in blood and tears 

The struggle was an arduous one 

But gainetl at last by Washington. 

Though liberty was dearly bought, 

A lesson to the world was taught 

By this great war, and one indeed 

That tyrants would do well to heed ; 

'Twas then a nation had its birth, 

To-day the proudest on the earth, 

'Twas then three million souls were all 

That rallied forth at freedom's call : 

Since then the number has increased 

To forty millions more at least. 

Our territory then was small 

Compared with what it is to-day, 

Just thirteen feeble States in all, 

But now it stretches far away, 

And reaches out from shore to shore, 

And from the Gulf to Labrador, 

Or somewhere near that land of snow, 

Where tempest winds so often blow : 

State after State has fallen in 

Since we have independent been. 

Till now they number thirty-eight, 

A Union absolutely great. 

What government through civil strife 



Centennial — l)evoted. 24 1 

Would not have been deprived of life? 
Yet ours has nobly stood the test, 
By Providence it has been blessed ; 
A century it now has stood 
And so we must pronounce it good ; 
That this our land might ever be 
The welcome home of liberty, 
Should be the fervent wish of all 
That can their own this country call. 
Now to conclude we will but say. 
This is our great Centennial day, 
1 he first, and last, for you and me 
So may it long remembered be. 



^ 



DEVOTED, 

Poems of an order high 
Will I write until I die. 
Then, O then, and not till then 
Will I lay aside my pen. 



142 The llapjuj 3f(in. 



THE HAPPY MAN. 

He is indeed a happy man, 

He finds no fault with nature's plan, 

And with his lot he is content 

Although he may not have a cent ; 

But should he chance to wealthy be 

None would enjoy it more than he. 

He is a man that little cares 

About this wicked world's affairs, 

He lets it wiggle as it may 

Nor has he very much to say. 

For well he knows he cannot bring 

About a change in anything. 

He ne'er anticipates a harm 

When there's no cause for an alarm, 

He has a conscience that is clear 

And consequently naught to fear, 

He evidently takes delight 

In doing what he thinks is right, 

Regardless of the moral code 

That Moses wrote, while on the road, 

Which led him to that other shore. 

Three thousand years ago or more. 

He is a man that does not fret 

Like some o'er matters small, and yet 



71ie H((ppy Man. 243 

He is quite willing to admit 

'Tis hard sometimes to keep from it. 

Of course he has his bitter foes 

Likewise his friends as well as those — 

To friends he is as true as steel 

While with his foes he does not deal ; 

He's one that ranks among the good 

And does to others as he would 

That they should do to him, and thus 

He never gets into a fuss. 

His aspirations long have ceased, 

He's not ambitious in the least, 

He's no desire to captain be 

Of any crew on land or sea ; 

He often wonders why it is 

That man sometimes neglects his "biz' 

To take his chance in an event 

That makes somebody president. 

He studies well the lules of health 

And then applies them to himself 

However hard or difficult, 

But health of course is the result ; 

If we may be allowed to guess, 

He never eats to an excess. 

Takes no intoxicating draughts 

Nor even tea or coffee quaffs. 

So there can be no pain nor ache 



24 t '^'^'^ JI(fpP!l M((7i — The Te((chers Sol/hx/ni/. 

To keep this gentleman awake, 
And consequently sleep to him 
Is rest indeed to weary limb. 
Although not plenty on the street 
This sort of man we sometimes meet. 



THE TEACHER'S SOLILOQUY. 

My name is Addie Rogers, 
'Twas step by step I rose, 

Till now I teach in Fairview 
As everybody knows. 

The people here are pleasant, 

And very, very kind, 
And some there are among them 

Religiously inclined. 

With deference they treat me 

I fervently declare, 
And if I were a princess 

I could no better fare. 

Who would not be a teacher ? 

If they could have the chance. 
The cause of education 

And science to advance. 



The Teachers Soliloqun. 245 

It is a noble calling, 

This no one can deny, 
To name one that is nobler 

The world I do defy. 

O, yes, I'd be a tutor 

And do my duty well, 
While teaching the beginner 

To read and write and spell. 

To teach the young idea 

Exactly "how to shoot," 
.Is work that I delight in 

I think beyond dispute. 

In teaching there is pleasure 

Most exquisite I say, 
When each and all are willing 

Their teacher to obey. 

'Tis trying on one's patience, 

However, when some rule 
Has been most rudely broken 

By members of the school. 

And yet we must expect it, 

Apparently 'tis meet. 
That we should take the bitter — 

The bitter with the sweet. 



246 3I<'G) lit ji's ('h((iif icleer 



McGINTY'S CHANTICLEER, 

The following lines were written and published 
soon after a poem appeared, entitled McGinty's Hoss. 

McGinty had as fine a fowl 

As ever crowed for day, 
He w^as erratic somewhat, too, 

As well as proud and gay. 

A noble pair of spurs had he 

With which he loved to fight. 
To whip the neighbors' fowls he thought 

He had a perfect right. 

While monarch of his feathered tribe 

Some fun had he, "you bet," 
For when another fowl appeared 

He'd make that rooster get. 

Across the way he'd sometimes stray 

In spite of rain or frost. 
And thus it was by trespassing 

His life, alas, he lost ! 

He wandered out across the street 

One very stormy day, 
And for a while he lingered 'round 

Where he'd no right to stay. 



McGhitifs Chanticleer 217 

At length he hopped upon the perch 

And crowed h\s fare ir ell crow, 
The lady grabbed her rolling-pin 

And at him she did throw. 

She gave the missile lightning speed, 

It took him on the head, 
He reeled and in a moment more 

He tumbled over dead. 

He then was of his plumage stripped 

And cooked without delay, 
And made a good svibstantial meal 

For those across the way. 

McGinty's chanticleer is gone 

No more to greet us here, 
No more to crow at dawn of day 

Throughout each passing year 

His roost is draped in mourning now 

We sadly feel his loss 
Since he has gone, undoubtedly, 

To join McGinty's "boss." 



Poetry indeed is poor 

When the sense is left obscure. 



248 The Oiifcdsf's L(.nntnf.. 



THE OUTCAST^S LAMENT. 

The following lines are represented as being ad- 
dressed by an outcast to her former associates, and 
others of the female sex generally. 

It was but ten short years ago 
I was a maiden gay you know, 
A maiden gay as gay could be, 
Not given to debauchery. 

It was but ten short years ago 
I was the pet and pride you know, 
The pet and pride of all I knew 
Beneath the vault of heaven so blue. 

My hand was sought by young and old, 
Not for the glitter of my gold, 
'Twas not for this, but just because 
A queen of beauty then I was. 

My suitors were quite plenty then, 
And some indeed were gentlemen 
Of means as well as good repute, 
Who labored hard to gain their suit. 



The Outcast's Lament. 

But I was foolish quite, indeed, 
My friends' advice I did not heed, 
I thought I would as soon be dead 
As to be to the altar led. 

But time sped on and now I roam 
An exile from my dear old home. 
An outcast from society 
Is what I find myself to be. 

No home have I, no one to care 
For me or in my misery share, 
My virtue gone, my good name tied, 
And I am to my kin as dead. 

In fact my soul of late has been 
Most thoroughly submerged in sin, 
And now my life is not, you know. 
Just what it was ten years ago. 

But who is there that is to blame. ^ 
Who brought me to disgrace and shame? 
I will be frank, the truth Til own, 
It was myself, and me alone. 

Be not like me, ye maidens gay. 
From paths of virtue do not stray. 
If )ou would shun a life of woe 
And be respected here below, 



>49 



2 c^o Progress. 



PROGRESS, 

If we would some progress make 
While we chance to linger here, 

We must look before we leap 
To be sure the way is clear. 

If no obstacles appear 

Progress surely can be made 

By all that are not disposed 
In the least to retrograde. 

We should strive with might and main 
To learn something every day, 

That to us will likely be 

Advantageous in some way. 

Each succeeding day we should 

Know a very little more 
Of ourselves and of the world 

Than we knew the day before. 

Facts are what we want to know, 
And are "stubborn things" indeed, 

Through this life's vicissitudes 
They're exactl}' what we need. 

How to gain them — there's the rub, 
All the way that I can see 



Progress — Autographs. 25 

Is to go investigate 

Nature's forces thoroughly. 

This will lead us on and up, 

Add a little day by day 
To our stock already gained 

That will ultimately pay. 

J' 

AUTOGRAPHS, 

He that's rich in earthly treasure 
Can carouse and have his pleasure. 

What seems to you incredible 

By all means set aside, 
It need not be accepted 

Nor need it be denied. 

You ask me to write in your album 

A verse sentimental and smart ; 
But what shall it be, is the question. 

That troubles this moment my heart. 
I only can think in my sorrow 

What a fool I have made of myself. 
By trying to write in your album, 

Since taking it lown from \.\\e shelf. 



252 Mjf ('(niiifrii. 



MY COUNTRY. 

1 love the land that bore me, 
The land that gave me birth, 

It lies spread out before me, 
The fairest land on earth. 

I love her lofty mountains. 
Her hills and valleys fair, 

Her clear and sparkling fountains 
That greet us here and there. 

I love her spreading prairies 
Extending far and vv^ide, 

Where flowers in splendor blossom 
On each and every side. 

I love her noble forests 
So august and so grand. 

Which decorate vs^ith beauty 
The precincts of our land. 

I love her running waters 
That doth to seaward glide, 

Likewise her sons and daughters 
Who on her shores abide. 



My Country — Youthful Pleasures. 253 

I love her flag, the ensign 

That doth so proudly wave 
O'er sixty million freemen 

And not a single slave. 

I love her institutions 

Though faulty they may be, 
'Twas w^isdom that conceived them 

But justice made them free. 

On earth there's naught that's dearer 

Than this bright land to me. 
Nor is there aught that's nearer 

My heart, or e'er can be. 

J' 

YOUTHFUL PLEASURES. 

When but a boy, O what a joy, 
To run and play and skip about. 

Or with my hook to seek the brook 
And fish awhile for speckled trout. 



2 54 Stea/Jfasf. 

STEADFAST. 

In a case where a man is satisfied with his matri- 
monial venture he is very wilHng in after years to ex- 
press himself accordingly, as did the old gentleman 
who is represented as being the author of the follow- 
ing poem. 

Ten thousand suns have risen and set 

Since dawned the day when first we met; 

No clouds had then thy pathway crossed, 

On life's rough sea thou'st ne'er been tossed. 

O, then thou wast a maiden gay, 

As brilliant as the orb of day. 

Upon thy brow no trace of care 

Could then have been detected there ; 

Thy cheeks were like the roses red 

When plucked from off their native bed. 

Those eyes of thine were bright indeed, 

Of glasses fine, they had no need. 

Thy brow was like the lily fair 

And silken was thy golden hair ; 

Those ruby lips were finely cut. 

And when they were not closely shut, 

Disclosed a set of teeth to view 

That well became a girl like you. 

Thy form was lovely to behold 

For it was cast in beauty's mold, 



Steadfast. 255 

And when it floated in the dance 

Its beauty, nothing could enhance. 

Such charms I could not long withstand 

So we were joined both heart and hand. 

But age has come! Thy wrinkled brow 

Denotes that life is ebbing now ; 

The luster of those eyes has fled 

And dimness fills them now instead. 

Thy cheeks their tints have long since lost 

And covered is thy head with frost, 

And one by one those pearly teeth 

Have fallen to the ground beneath. 

While now it takes an hour at least 

At any ordinary feast 

Your meal of victuals to complete, 

So very slow you have to eat. 

In some respects I plainly see 

You are not what you used to be ; 

Changed has become thy outward form 

Since meeting with storm after storm. 

One consolation of my life 

Is this^ my dear beloved wife, 

There's naught can change thy inmost soul 

So long as suns and planets roll. 



256 Satisfctctf'ov. 

SATISFACTION. 

There is some satisfaction in living 

When we look upon all as our brothers, 

There is more satisfaction in giving 
By far than receiving from others. 

There is some satisfaction in eating 
When hunger the stomach oppresses, 

And likewise in pleasantly greeting 
The one that receives our caresses. 

When thirst has o'er-vanquished us nearly 
In drinking there's exquisite pleasure, 

'Tis water we prize then most dearly 
That satisfies us beyond measure. 

When we with fatigue are quite weary, 
O what is more pleasant than creeping 

Beneath the bed blankets so cheery 
And take satisfaction m sleeping ? 

O, let us be ever pursuing 

The course that is narrow and straight. 
As there's satisfaction in doing 

The right thing before 'tis too late. 

There is great satisfaction in knowing 
Our lives shall flow on evermore. 

And in wisdom and knowledge keep growing 
As sphere after sphere we explore 



Home. 257 



HOME* 



Were we inclined to wander forth 
And through the world to roam, 

We ne'er would find a spot as dear 
To us as home, sweet home. 

It has a charm no other place 

Has got or ever had, 
In bidding it a last farewell 

The heart must needs be sad. 

It is the only spot on earth 
We feel ourselves at ease 

And know we have a right to do, 
And act, just as we please, 

That is, provided that we keep 
Within the bounds of love, 

And treat each other as they do 
In the bright realms above. 

Of luxuries it may become 
Quite destitute and bare. 

Yet home it is and nothing less 
For love is centered there. 



2 58 Home—'Tii< Said. 

And we will clin<]j to it despite 
The wolf that's at the door, 

And make ourselves at home the same 
As we had done before. 

'TIS SAID. 

'Tis said there is a world of bliss 
Existmg just outside of this, 
Where we shall go when we are done 
With earth and all beneath the sun. 

'Tis said there is a world of light 
Inhabited by angels bright, 
Where we shall know our loved ones well 
When over there we go to dwell. 

'Tis said there is a world of love 
Not far away in realms above ; 
Although it is beyond the tomb, 
There's sunshine there instead of gloom. 

Why should there not, O let me ask. 
Be such a place where we may bask 
In sunshine when this life is o'er, 
And happy be forever more? 



To My Wife. 259 



TO MY WIFE. 



Some years have passed adown the tide 
Since you became my loving bride, 
And you have proved yourself to be 
An estimable wife to me. 

Without you w^hat would be my life? 
A lonely one, with sorrow rife, 
Much hke a shrub without a flower 
Or desert's waste without a shower. 

Instead of joy 'twould give me pain, 
With much to lose and naught to gain, 
Were I compelled to live apart 
From one I love with all my heart. 

Without you, Jane, my home would be 
A dreary place indeed to me, 
And most sincerely I declare 
I would not wish to hnger there. 

Since you became my lawful bride 
You've been the acme of my pride. 
No pen of mine or tongue can tell 
How much I love you or how well. 



26o The Universe. 



THE UNIVERSE. 

The Universe, O what a word ! 

There's not another such 
In all the world of literature, 

It signifies so rtuich. 

The Universe comprises all 
Within the realms of space, 

Extending to remotest bounds, 
It doth all things embrace. 

The sun and moon are only parts 
"Of one stupendous whole." 

That in illimitable space 
Perpetually doth roll. 

The earth with all its oceans vast, 

Its every land and sea. 
Is but a mite, compared with all 

This great immensity. 

The comets too are wanderers 
Amid this heavenly throng. 

And to the boundless universe 
They do of course belong. 

The hundred thousand stars that shine, 
With radiance of their own. 



The LTniverse — Avtoiiraph. 26 

Are mighty suns belonging to 
This universe alone. 

Around each sun are planets vast, 

Revolving evermore, 
With beings of intelligence 

They're doubtless peopled o'er. 

We, of this earth may be but babes 
Compared with what they know, 

And yet we boast of knowledge vast 
As through the world we go. 

In numbers how superior 

To us beneath the sun, 
They number tens of millions, where 

We number only one. 

The Universe — its scale how grand ? 

O'er space its cycles sweep, 
In dazzling splendor, O how full ! 

In mystery how deep ! 

AUTOGRAPH, 

My autograph I now will write 
Upon this page so clear and white. 
So that in after years you may 
Behold what I have written to-day. 



262 . On Dtjinij. 



ON DYING. 

Great nature's call we must obey, 
To it we yield without delay, 
And whether 'tis to me or you 
A quick response will but. ensue. 

She calls, but utters not a word. 
Her call is felt but is not heard. 
No sooner does she bid us die 
Tlian we are destined to comply. 

We cannot well the call resist. 
However, much we may insist 
On staying here, but we must go 
And leave behind both friend and foe. 

The scenes we love so well and all 
Pertaining to this heavenly ball, 
We leave them when her stern decree 
Goes forth that sets our spirits free. 

We enter then the spirit land, 
So great, magnificent, and grand ; 
When first we're made to realize 
We were intended for the skies. 



On Dying — Ignorance. 263 

New aspirations now begin, 

New thoughts — ideas all within — 

Our being changes, we aspire 

To something nobler, something higher. 

So let the call come when it may. 
We should be ready to obey. 
For much there is in store for all 
Who meekly yield to nature's call. 



IGNORANCE. 

Now if it is a fact 

That "ignorance is bliss," 
O, then there cannot be 

A happier world than this. 



AUTOGRAPH, 

We ought to always take delight 
In doing what we think is right. 



264 The lihaksniifh 



THE BLACKSMITH. 

Beside the forge the blacksmith stands, 
He earns a living with his hands. 
His business is to shape the wedge 
Upon the anvil, with his sledge. 
To weld the iron when broke in two 
And make it just as good as new, 
To cut a thread upon the bolt, 
To shoe the mare, but not the colt, 
To know just when to strike, and not 
To hit the iron when it is hot, 
To blow the bellows now and then. 
To know how hard to blow, and when. 
He is presumed to know just how 
To keep in good repair the plow. 
The thing most useful to mankind 
Of anything that you can find 
Constructed out of iron or steel, 
Intended to promote our weal. 
These are among the things that go 
To make what he's supposed to know, 
They are a part and nothing more 
Of what should constitute his lore. 
He is a noisy man indeed, 



The Blacks in itJi. 265 

In this respect he takes the lead, 

From early morn, till close of day 

You'll hear him on the anvil play 

A sort of tune with lively ring 

That really is quite deafening. 

His strong right arm is able to 

Perform the work he has to do. 

His heart is willing, so you see 

He is just what he ought to be. 

Although a man, he's like an ace, 

He fills a consequential place. 

His services in fact are such 

As should be valued very much. 

Wiihout him it is plain to see 

The disadvantages that we 

Must necessarily undergo 

While plodding on our way below. 

His fate is somewhat hard, 'tis true 

For this is w4iat he has to do : 

To blow and strike, to strike and blow. 

Then o'er the same again to go, 

From hour to hour, from day to day, 

Until he toils his life away. 



The Iie(/(/(fr\s Pefititm 



THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. 

My youth, alas, has passed away 
And now I'm old and somewhat gray, 
Quite wrinkled is my brow with age 
For life with me has reached a stage 
Much harder to endure than when 
I was a lad of nine or ten. 
The joys of youth, alas, have fled 
And sorrow haunts me now instead. 
At best life's paths are rough, "you bet," 
As we proceed they rougher get. 
No flowers for us are wont to bloom 
As we draw nigh unto the tomb. 
O yes, O yes, I'm old they say 
And have not very long to stay ; 
My limbs are feeble and my strength 
Will wholly disappear at length. 
And then, O dear! What shall I do, 
No friends have I that's staunch and true; 
For years ago my childien died, 
'Twas one by one they left my side 



The Be(jcfar''s Petition — Devoted. 267 

And disappeared from view, no more 
To greet my sight as heretofore. 
This was not all, for soon my wife, 
The joy and comfort of my life, 
As she was then — and, O so brave — 
Was next to fill the yawning grave. 
This was too mtich for me, and I 
Had then a great desire to die ; 
But I could not, and so you see, 
I live to-day to ask of thee 
Thy sympathy, as well as aid. 
To help me on life's downward grade. 
That I might halt and eat a bit 
When there comes on a hungry fit. 
If you have aught that you can give. 
To succor me while yet I live, 
Most thankfully 'twill be received, 
And one poor soul will be relieved. 



268 Beauty. 



BEAUTY. 

From a Woman's Standpoint. 

When I was young 'and pretty 

He clung close to me then, 
But since I'm old and ugly, 

He's like most other men, 
He seeks the more attractive, 

The ugly he neglects, 
And yet 1 can excuse him 

For these are his defects. 

Of course it is his nature 

A beauty to admire, 
And so we see 'tis only 

His natural desire. 
Nor can my husband help it, 

He'd do so if he could, 
But it is my impression 

He could not if he would 

O, beauty, thou enchanter, 

Thy conquests are complete 
And yet with all th) magic 



Beauty. 269 



Thou art a glorious cheat. 
Thy power is great wherever 

Thou hast a kirking place, 
For man's not constituted 

To shun a lovely face. 

O, no, he could not do it. 

He could not if he would, 
And I'm of the opinion 

He would not if he could. 
There is no power that's greater. 

Unless 'tis that of gold, 
It sways alike the lordly, 

The humble, young, and old. 

It causes man to waver 

From his designs in life, 
And in a thousand cases 

It is the cause of strife. 
The eye of man it pleases 

Exactly to a dot. 
And thus 'tis doing something 

That other things cannot. 

It is a gift of nature 

Unto a favored few, 
That lingers for a season 



270 Ben 11 fy — A iifograph . 

Then vanishes hke dew. 
Would that 'twas universal, 

Possessed by every one 
That has a form or being 

Beneath the glorious sun ! 

Would that 'twould bloom eternal, 

And never fade away ! 
'Twould be a joy forever. 

As poets sometimes say. 
This life would be more pleasant, 

As man would closer cling 
To wife, and not regard her 

As an ungraceful thing. 



AUTOGRAPH. 

Now if you were a farmer's- wife, 
'Tis my opinion that your life 
Would suit you, Maggie, just as well 
As if you were some reigning belle. 



The Rose. 



THE ROSE. 

No flower is lovelier than the rose, 
Has been the verdict, I suppose, 
Of the refined in every age 
Since Noah built his mighty "cage." 

There's notWxng purer, I beheve. 
Of which our nature can conceive, 
Unless it is the sparklintj^ dew 
That doth its leaves so oft imbrue, 

O, what is sweeter, let me ask ? 
To answer this would be a task 
Too arduous to undertake, 
So the attempt we will not make. 

Its fragrance fills the very air 
With odors sweet, delicious, rare, 
If not the eyes it is the nose 
Will tell us where to find the rose. 

There's beauty in the parent shrub 
Ere it enfolds a single bud, 
But more by far. I here declare. 
When roses sweet have blossomed there. 



271 



272 The Rose — Avtograph. 

Their tints are all so delicate, 
And in variety so great, 
I never can while here I live 
A nice description of it give. 

A small bequest I now will make. 
Before I sleep no more to wake : 
When I have drawn my latest breath, 
And closed my eyes in silent death, 

If one sweet rose full blown and fair 
Can be procured from anywhere, 
O place it gently on my breast 
Before I'm laid away to rest. 

'Tis all I ask, 'tis all I crave, 

To occupy with me the grave, 

When my obituary's read 

And I am numbered with the dead. 

AUTOGRAPH, 

Virtue is the radiant star 
That leads the soul to heaven afar, 
The star that must our footsteps guide 
If we in heaven would abide. 



